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By Miss M. E. BRADDON, 














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CHAPTER I. But the same.Mrs. Mostyn, who never forgot to 

keep up her correspondence with the owner of 

th« m*k with the BivxER. Dangerfield Park, utterly ignored the existence 

THChistory of Edward Arundel, second son of of another brother, a certain Hubert Arundel, who 

Christopher Arundel Dangerfield Arundel, of Dan 
gerfield Park, Devonshire, began on a certain 
dark winter's night upon which the lad, still a 
»chool-boy, went with his cousin, Martin Mostyn, 
to witness, a blank-verse tragedy at one of the 
London theatres. 

There are few men who, looking back at the 
long story of their lives, cannot point to one page 

had, perhaps, much more need of her sisterly 
friendship than the wealthy Devonshire squire. 
Heaven knows, the world seemed a lonely place 
to this younger son, who had been educated for 
the Church, and was fain to content himself with 
a scanty living in one of the dullest and dampest 
towns in fenny Lincolnshire. His sister might 
have very easily made life much more pleasant 

it is to be remarked that if A's income is three 
hundred a year, and B's a thousand, the chance* 
are as seven to three that H wilt forget ar$ old 
intimacy that may have existed between himself 
and A. Hubert Arundel had been wild at college, 

in the record of the past at which the actual his- »'to the Rector of Swampington and his only daugh 
tory of life began. The page may come in the very : ter; but Hubert Arundel was a great deal too 
middle of the book perhaps ; perhaps almost at proud to remind her of this. If Mrs. Mostyji 
the end. But let it come where it will, it is, after ; chose to forget him — the brother and sister had 
all, only the actual commencement. At an ^ip- • been loving friends and dear companions long ago 
pointed hour in man's existence the overture ■ under the beeches at Dingerfieid — she was wel- 
which has been going on ever since he was born, > come to do so. She was better off than him; and 
is brought to a sudden close by the sharp vibra- < 
tion of the prompter's signal-bell, the curtain ; 
rises, and the drama of life begins. ; 

The story of young Arundel's life began when - 
he was a light-hearted, heedless lad of seventeen , ; 

newly escaped for a brief interval from the carej and had put his autograph across so many oblong 
of .his pastors and masters. slips ot'blue paper, acknowledging value receiv- 

The lad had come to London on a Christmas ed that 'had been only half received, that by the 
viiit to his father's suter, a good-natured widow, time the claims of all the holders of these por- 
with a great many sons and daughters, and an in- \ lentous morsels of stamped paper hadlseen satu- 
come only large enough to enable her to keep the i fled, the younger son's fortune had melted away, 
appearances of wealth* essential to the family ; leaving its sometime possessor the happy owner 
pride of one of the Arundels of Dangerfield. of a pair of pointers, a couple of guns by crack 

Laura Arundel had married a Colonel Mostyn, - makers, a good many foils, single-sticks, boxing- 
of the fcast India Company's service, and had re- ( gloves, wire masks, basket-helmets, leathern leg- 
turned from India after a wandering liie of some ! guards, and other paraphernalia, a complete set 
years, leaving her dead husband behind her, and ! of the old Sporting Magazine from 1792 to the cur- 
bringing away with her five daughters and three \ rent year, bound in scarlet morocco, several boxes 

sons, most of whom had been born under canvas. 

Mrs. Mostyn bore her troubles bravely, and con- '. 
trived to do more with her pension, and an addi- [ 
tional income of three hundred a year from a ! 
small fortune of her ovvn, than the most consum- ; 
mate womanly management can often achieve. 

of very bad cigars, a Scotch terrier, and a pipe of 
undrinkable port. 

Of all these possessions only the undrinkable 
port now remained to show that Hubert Arundel 
had once had a decent younger son's fortune, and 
had s-ucceeded most admirably in making, ducks 

Her house in Montague .Square was splendidly and drakes of it. The poor about Swampington 
furnished, her daughters vfere exquisitely dressed, j believed in the sweet red wine, which had been' 
her sons sensibly educated, her dinners well cook- '■ specially concocted for tsraelitish dealers in jew- 
ed. She was not an agreeable woman; she was, ( el'ry, cigars, picture*, wines and specie. They 
perhaps, if anything, too sensible — so very sensi- ; smacked their lips over the mysterious liquid and 
ble as to be obviously intolerant of any thing like \ confidently affirmed that it did them more good 
folly in others. She was a good mother, but by , than all the doctor's stuff the parish apothecary 
no means an indulgent one. She expected her ; could send them. Poor Hubert Arundel was well 
sons to succeed in life, and her daughters to marry content to find that at least this scanty crop of 
rich men; and would have had little patience I corn had grown up from the wild oats he had sown 
with any disappointment in either of these rea- < at Cambridge. 

sonable expectations. She was attached to her ; I have no doubt that Hubert Arundel felt the 
brother, Christopher Arundel, and she was very sting of his oniy sister's neglect, as only a poor 
well pleased to spend the autumn months at Dan- - and proud man can feel such an insult- but he 
gerfield, where the hunting breakfasts gave her s never let any confession of this sentiment escane 
daughters an excellent platform for the exhibi- his lips; and when Mrs. Mostyn beine seized with 
tion of charming demi-toilets and social and do- \ a fancy for doing this forgotten brother a service 
mestic graces, perhaps more dangerous to the sus-j wrote him a letter of insolent advice winding- ml 
ceptible hearts of rich young squires than the with an offer to procure his only child a situation 
fascinations of a vtlse d deux Umpt or an Italian as nursery-governess, the Rector of Swampine 
,e#n * ! ton onl y crushed the missive in fail strong- hand, 


and flung it into his study fire, with a muttered ( tion of the audience. Perhaps no brighter free 
exclamation that sounded terribly like mi oath. ', looked upward -that night toward the glare i and 
•A nursery-governess!' he repeated savagely; ■ slitter of the great chandelier than that ol Uie 
<ves; an under-paid drudge, to teach children ' fair-haired lad in the stage-box. His candid blue 
tieir A BC, and mend their frocks and make their i eyes beamed with a more radiant sparkle than any 
pinafores. 1 should like Mrs. Mostyn to talk to : of the myriad lights in the theatre; a nimbus of 
my little Livy for half an hour. I think my girl ; golden hair shone abouthis broad white lorehead; 
would have put the lady down so completely by < glowing health, careless happiness, truth, good 
the end of that time, that we should never Hear $ nature, hotlesty, boyish vivacity, and the courage 
any more about nursery -governesses.' of a young lion — all were expressed in the fear- 

He laughed bitterly as he repeated the obnox- less smile, the frank, yet half-defiant gaze. Above 
iou's phrase; but his laugh changed to a i all, this lad of seventeen looked ^specially what 
Was it strange that .the father should sigh as he : he was— a thorough gentleman. Martin JVJostyn 
remembered how he had seen the awful hand of ;' was prim and effeminate, precociously tired of 
Death fall suddenly upon younger and stronger \ life, precociously indifferent to evory thing but 
men than himself? What 'if he were to die, and \ his own advantage; but the Devonshire boy's talk 
leave his only child unmarried ? What would be- \ was still fragrant with the fresh perfume of youth 
come of her, with her dangerous gifts, with her ;' and innocence, still gay with the joyous reckless- 
fatal dowry of beauty, and intellect, and pride? * ness of early boyhood. He was as impatient for 
'But she would never do any thing wrong,' (the noisy pantomime overture, and the bright 
the father thought. ''Her religious principles are < troops of fairies in petticoats of spangled muslin, 
strong enough to keep her right-under any circum- ( as the most inveterate cockney cooling his snub 
stances, in spite of any temptation. Her sense i nose against the iron railing of the gallery. He 
of duty is more powerful than any other sentiment. \ wasasready to fall in love with the painted beauty 
She would never be false to that; she wouldnever of the ill-paid ballet girls, as the veriest child 
be false to that.' J in tije wide circle of humanity about him. Fresh, 

In return for the hospitality of Danger-field Park, \ untainted, unsuspicious, he looked but at the world 
Mrs. Mostyn was in the habit of opening her '; ready to believe in every thing and every body, 
doors to either Christopher Arundel or his sons i 'How you do fidget, Edward !' whispered Mar- 
whenever any of the three came to London. Of » tin Mostyn, peevishly; 'why don'tyou look at the 
course, she infinitely preferred seeing Arthur , stage ? It's capital fun.' 
Arundel, the elder son and heir, seated at her ;■ 'Fun!' 

well-spread table, and flirtini; with one ^of his ; 'Yes; I don't mean the tragedy, you know; but 
pretty cousins, than to be bored with his rackety ; the supernumeraries. Did you ever see such an 
"younger brother, a noisy lad of seventeen, witti j iftvkward set of fellows in all your life ? There's 
no better prospects than a commission inherMa- ' a man there with weak legs and a heavy banner 
jesty's service, and a hundred and fifty pounds a ! that I've been watching all -the evening. He's 
year to eke out his pay; but she was, notwith- \ more fun than all the rest of it put together.' 
standing, graciously pleased to invite Edward to ■ Mr. Mostyn being of course much too polite to 
spend his Christmas holidays in her comfortable ) point out the man in question, indicated him with 
household; and it was thus it came to pass that a twitch of his light eyebrows; and Edward Arun- 
on the 29th of December, in the year 1838, the '' dei, following that indication, singled out the 
story of Edward Arundel's life began in a stage- \ banner-holder from a group of soldiers in medie- 
box at Drury Lane Theatre. j val dress, who had been standing wearily enough 

The box had been sent to Mrs. Mostyn by the s upon one side of the stage during a long strictly 
fashionable editor of a fashionable newspaper; \ private and confidential dialogue between the 
but that lady and her daughters being previously . princely hero of the tragedy and one of his ac- 
engaged, had permitted the two boys to avail ; commodating satellites. The lad uttered a cry of 
themselves of the editorial privilege. ■ surprise as he looked at the weak-legged banner- 

The tragedy was the dull production of .a dis- < holder, 
tinguished literary amateur, and even the great ; Mr. Mostyn turned upon his cousin with s,ome 
actor who played the principal character could ,' vexation. 

notmakc the performance'particularly enlivening. ! 'I can't help it, Martin,' exclaimed young 
He certainly failed in impressing Mr. Edward 'Arundel; '1 can't be mistaken— yes— poor fellow, 
Arundel, who flung himself back in his chair and ; to think that he should come to this! you haven't 
yawned dolefully during the earlier part of the ' forgotten him, Martin, surely.' 
entertainment. ' * 'Forgotten what— forgotten whom? My dear 

'It ain't particularly jolly, is it, Martin ?' he ; Edward, what do you mean ':' 
said, naively. 'Let's go out and have seme oy«- ; 'John Marchmont, the poor fellow who used 
ters, and come in again just before the pantomime f to teach us mathematics at Vernon's; the fellow 
begins.' ' the governor sacked because — ' 

'Mamma made mc promise that, we wouldn't 'Well, what of him >' 
leave the theatre till we left for good, Ned,' his 'The poor; chap with the banner,' exclaimed 
cousin answered; 'and then we re to go straight the boy, in a breathless whisper; 'don't you see, 
home m a cab. j Martin ? didn't you recognize him ? It's March- 

Edward Arundel sighe*. 'I wish we hadn't j mont, poor old Marchmont, that we used to chaff, 
come till half-price, old fellow, he said, drear- ; and that the governor sacked because he had a 
ily. 'If I'd known it was to be a tragedy, I ! constitutiopal cough, and wasn't strong enough 
wouldn't have come away trom the Square in j for his work.' 

such a hurry. I wonder why people write trage- ! <Oh yes, 1 remember him well enough ' Mr 
dies, when nobody likes them ?' Mostyn answered, indifferently. 'Nobody' could 

He turned his back tb the stage, and folded his stand his cough, you know; and be Was ^ Tul 
armsupon the velvet cushion of the box prepara-' fellow, into the bargain.* f * 

ory to indulging himielf in a deliberate inipac- ! <He'waw't a. Vulgar fellow, ""Upward j B . 


dignantiy: 'there, there's the curtain down again; 
he belonged to a good family in Lincolnshire, and 
was heir-presumptive to a stunning fortune. I've 
heard him say so twenty times.' 

'Oh, I dare say you've heard him say so, my 
dear boy/ he murmured, superciliously. 
Jjfc'Ah, and it was true,' cried Edward ; 'he 
wasn't a fellow to tell lies; perhaps he'd have 
suited Mr. Vernon better if he had been. He had 
bad health, and was weak, and all that sort of 
thing; but he wasn't a snob. He showed me a 
signet-ring once that he used to wear on his watch- 
chain — ' 

there's a good fellow. I tell you he's a friend of 
mine, and quite a gentleman too. Bless you.thera 
isn't a move in mathematics he isn't up to; and 
he'll come into a fortune some of these days — ' 

'Yes,' interrupted the door-keeper, sarcastical] 
ly, '1'veheerd that. TIley chaffs him about that 
up stairs. He's allers talking about bein' a gen- 
tleman and belongin' to gentlemen, and all that; 
hut you're the first gentleman as have ever as't 
after him.' . 

'And can I see him?' 

'I'll do my best, Sir. Here, you Jim,' said the 
1 door-keeper, addressing a dirty youth, who had 

'A silver watch-chain,' simpered Mr. Mostyn, J just nailed an official announcement of the next 

let lil/n n nnnnnntnn'o ' ) mAnn innp'a foKao I*e 1 1 »lti/\r» 4 Vi a Y\n**\r S\F O ctnn V_ 

'just like a carpenter's. 

'Don't be suoh a supercilious cad, Martin. He 
was very kind to me, poor Marchmont, and 1 
know I was always a nuisance to him, poor old fel- 
low; foryou knowlnevercouldgeton with Euclid. 
I'm sorry to see him here. Think, Martin, what 
an occupation for him ! I don't suppose he gets 
more than nine or ten shillings a week for it.' 

'A shilling a night is, I believe, the ordinary re- 
muneration for a stage-soldier. They pay as much 
for the real thing as for the sham, you see; the de- 
fenders of our country risk their Jives for about 
the same consideration. 'Where are you going, 

Edward Arundel had left his place, and was try- 
ing to undo the door of the box. 

'To see if I can get at this poor fellow.' 

'You persist in declaring, then, that the 

morning's rehearsal upon the back of a stony- 
hearted swing-door, which was apt to jam the 
lingers of the uninitiated, 'what's the name of 
that super with the jolly bad cough, the one they 
call Barking — ' 

'Oh, that's Morti-more.' 

'Do you know if he's od in the first scene?' 

'Yes. He's one of the demons; but the scene 'i 
just over. Do you want him ?' 

'You can take up this young gentleman's card 
to him, and tell him to slip down here if he's got 
a wait,' said the door-keeper. 

Mr. Arundel handed his card to the dirty boy. 

He'll come to me fast enough, poor fellow!' he 
muttered. 'I usen't to chaff him as the others did, 
and I'm glad I didn't now.' 

Edward Arundel could not easily forget that 
one brief scrutiny in which he had recognized the 

with the weak legs is ourold mathematical drudge? ) wasted face of the schoolmaster's hack who had 

Well, I shouldn't wonder. The fellow was cough- 
ing all through the fiye acts, and that's uncom- 
monly like Marchmont. You're surely not going 
to renew your acquaintance with him?' 

But young ArundeLhad just succeeded in open- 
ing the door, and he left the box without waiting 
to answer his cousin's question. He made his way 
very rapidly out of the theatre, and ■fought man- 
fully through the crowds who were waiting about 
the pit and gallery doors, until he found himself 
at the stage-entrance. He had often looked with 
reverent wonder at the dark portal; but he had 
never before essayed to ^ross the sacred thresh- 1 
hold. But the guardian of the gate to this theatri- 
cal paradise, inhabited by fairies at a gflinea a 
week, and baronial retainers' at a shilling a night, 
is ordinarily a very inflexible individual, not to be 
corrupted .by any mortal persuasion, and scarcely 
corruptible by the more potent influence of gold 
or silver. Poor ^dward's half a crown had no ef- 
fect whatever upon the stern "door-keeper, wha 
thanked him for his donation, but told him that it 
was agen his orders tb let any body go up stairs. 

'But I want to see some one so particularly,' 
the boy said, eagerly. 'Don't you think you could 
manage it for me, you know ? He's an old friend 
of mine — one of the supernu — what's-its-names?' 
added Edward, stumbling over the word. 'He 
carried a banner in the tragedy, you know; and 
he's got such an awful cough, poor chap.' 

taught him mathematics only two years before. — 
•Cuuid there be any thing m'<re piteous than that 
legrading. spectacle? The feeble frame scarcely 
able to sustain that paltry one-sided banner of 
calico and tinse.1; the two rude daubs of coarse 
vermilion upon the hollow cheeks; the black 
smudges -that were meant for eyebrows; the 
wretched scrap of horse-hair glued upon the 
pinched chin in dismal mockery of a beard; and 
through all this the pathetic pleading of large ha- 
zel eyes, bright with the unnatural lustre of dis- 
ease, and saying perpetually, more plainly than 
words can speak, 'Do not look at ine; do not de- 
spise me; do not even pity me. It won't last long.' 
The fresh-hearted school-boy wasstillthinking 
of this, when a wasted hand was laid lightly and 
tremulously on his arm, and looking up he saw a 
man in a hideous mask and a tight-fitting suit of 
scarlet and gold standing by his side. 

'I'll take off my mask in a minute, Arundel,' 
said a faint voice, that sounded hollow and muf- 
fled within a cavern of pasteboard and wicker- 
work. 'It was very good of you to come round" 
very, very good !' 

! .'I was so sorry to see you here, Marchmont; 

i knew you in a moment, in spite of the disguise. 

The supernumerary had struggled out of his 

huge head-gear by this time, and laid the fabric 

\ of papier-mache and tinsel carefully aside upon a 

> shelf. He had washed his face before putting on 

'Barking Jeremiah !' < was interesting and gentlemanly.'notby any means 

'Yes, Sir. They calls him Barking because he's I handsome, but almost womanly in its softness of 
allers coughin' his poor weak head off; and they \ expression. It was the face of a man who had not 
calls him Jeremiah because he's allers doleful. — > yet seen his thirtieth birth-day; who might never 
And I never did see such a doleful chap, cer-j live to see it, Edward thought, mournfully, 
tainly.' j 'Why do you do this, Marchmont? "the boy 

•Oh, do let me see him,' cried Mr. Edward ; asked, bluntly. J 

Arundel. 'I know you can manage it; so do, \ 'Because there was nothing else left for me to 


io,' the jtage-demon answered, with a sad smile > world, I shall never again boast of my successes 

•I ca^'t pet a situation in a school, for my health I with lovely woman. What's the number, oia lei- 

won't suffer me to take one; or it won't suffer any how ?' 

employer to take me, for fear of my falling ill( Mr. Arundel had pulled out a smart morocco 

upon his hands, which comes to the satae thine;;' pocket-book and a gold pencil-case. * 

io I do a little copying for the law-stationers, and \ 'Twenty-seven Oakley Street, Lambeth. But 

thishelps out that, and 1 get on as well as lean. I'd rather you wouldn't come, Arundel; your 

I wouldn't so much mind if it wasn't for— ' ] friends wouldn't like it.' f 

He stopped suddenly, interrupted by aparox-/ 'My friends may go hang themselves. 1 sha " 
jsm of coughing. . 5 do as I like, and I'll be with you to breakfast, 

'If it wasn't for whom, old fellow ?' ? sharp ten.' 

'My poor little girl; my poor little motherless) The supernumerary had no time to remonstrate. 
Mary.' J The progress of the music, faintly audible from 

Edward Arundel looked grave, and perhaps a {the lobby in which -this conversation had taken 
little ashamed of himself. He had forgotten un- place, told him that his scene was nearly on. 
til this moment that his old tutor had been left a > '1 can't stop another moment. Go back to your 
widower at four-and-twenty, with a little daugh-^ friends, Arundel. Good-night. God bless you !' 
ter to support out of his scanty stipend. '/ -'Stay; one word. The Lincolnshire property — ' 

'Don't be down-hearted, old fellow,' the lad!; 'Will never come to 'me, my boy' the demon 
whispered, tenderly; 'perhaps I shall be able to ? answered sadly, through his mask; for he had been 
help you, you know. And the litt'e girl can go '/ busy reinvesting himself in that demoniac guise. 
down to Dangerfield; 1 know my mother would i '1 tried to sell my reversion, but the Jews almost 
take care of her, and will keep her there till you i laughed in my face when the} heard me cough. — 
get strong and well. And then you might start a > Good-night.' 

fencing-room, or a shooting-gallery, or something/ He was gone, and the swing-door slammed in 
of that sort, at the West End; and I'd come to'/ Edward Arundel's face. The boy hurried back 
you, and bring lots of fellows to you, and you'd i to his cousin, who was cross and dissatisfied at his 
get on capitally, you know'.' .; absence. Martin Mostyn had discovered that the 

Poor John Marchmont, the asthmatic supernu-'/ ballet-girls -were all either old or ugly, the music 
merary, looked perhaps the very last person in \ badly chosen, tbepanlomimestupid, the scenery a 
the world whom it could be possible to associate ; failure. He asksd a few supercilious questions 
with a pair of foils or a pistol and a target; but he < about his old tutor, but scarcely listened to Ed- 
smiled faintly at his old pupil's enthusiastic talk. < ward's answers; and was intensely aggravated 
'You were "always a good fellow, Arundel,' he < with his companion's pertinacity in sitting out the 
said, gravely. '1 don't suppose I shall ever ask j>comic business — in which poor John Marchmont 
you to do me a service; but if, by-and-by, lhis/ appeared and re-appeared; now as a well-dressed 
cough makes me knock under, and my little Polly j passenger carrying a parcel, which he deliberately 
should be left — I— I think you'd get your mother < sacrificed to the felonious ^propensities of the 
to be kind to her, wouldn'tyou, Arundel r' ' clown, now as a policeman, now as a barber, now 

A picture rose before the supernumerary 's wea- / as a chemist, now as a ghost; but always buffeted, 
ry eyes as he said this; the picture of a pleasant .; or cajoled, »r bonneted, or imposed upon; al- 
lady whose description he had often heard from / ways piteous, miserable, and long-suffering; with 
the lips of a loving son, a rambling old mansion, < arms that ached from carrying a banner through 
wide-spreading lawns, and long arcades of oak / five acts of. blank-verse weariness, with a head 
and beeches leading away to the blue distance. If/ that had throbbed under the weight of a ponderous 
this Mrs. Arundel, who was so tender and com-? edifice of pasteboard andfvicker, with eyes that 
passionate and gentle to every red-cheeked cot- \ were sore with the evil influence of blue-fire and 
tage girl who crossed her pathway — Edward had ) gunpowder smoke, with a throat that bad been 
told him this very often — would take compassion i poisoned by sulphurous vapors, with bones that 
also upon this little one ! If she would only con-/ were stiff with playful pommeling of clown and 
descend to ?ee the child, t^re poor pale neglected' pantaloon: and alffor— a shilling a night! 
flower, the fragile lily, the frail exotic blossom, ' . 

that was so cruelly out of place upon the bleak', 

pathways of life ! '■ ■ , 

'If that's all that troubles you,' young Arundel; 
cried, eagerly, 'you may make your mind easy,; CHAPTER II. 

and come and have some oysters. We'll take care i 

of the child. I'll adopt her, and my mother shall ; little mart. 

educate her, and she shall marry a duke. Run; Poor John. Marchmont had given his address 

away now, old fellow, and change your clothes, » unwillingly enough to his old pupil. The Jodeine 

and come and have oysters, and stout out of the ; m Oakley Street was a wretched back-room upon 

pewter.' ; the second floor of a house whose lower regions 

Mr. Marchmont shook his head , were devoted to that species of establishment 

'My time's just up, he'said; 'I m on in the next < commonly called a 'ladies' wardrotfe.' The poor 

leene. It was very kind of you to come round, gentleman, the teacher of mathematics, the law- 

Arundel, but this ,sn't exactly the best place for writer, the Drury Lane supernumerary, had 

you . Go back to your friends, my dear boy and shrunk from any exposure of his poverty /but his 

don't think any more of me. 1 11 w rite to you j p Up ,i' s .mperious good nature had overridden ev- 

iome day about little Mary. <ery objection, and John Marchmont awoke upon 

•You'll do nothing of the kind,' exc aimed the the morning after the meeting at D rur v Lane to 

bor. 'You'll give me yejir address instanter, and j the rather embarrassing recollection that h^wM 

I'll come to see you the first thing to-morrow < to expect a visitor to breakfast with him 

ujorcinr. and you'll introduce me to little Mary ; How was he to entertain the d ashi '"V. . - 

STlWfl-trc not the best friends in the Irited young school-boy, ~ho S . lot w£ 8 c ^$X' 


pleasant pathways of life, and who was no doubt) Sate— it wofcld hare been about as eaiT for him 
accustomed to see at his matutinal meal such lux-? to become either as to burst at once, ana without 
urjes as John Marchmont had only beheld in the/ an hour's practice, into a full-blown Leotard or 
fairy-like realms of comestible beauty exhibitedfOlmar — his daughter's influence would have held 
to hungry foot-passengers behind the plate-glass) him Back as securely as if the slender arms twined' 
windows of Italian warehouses ? } tenderly about him had been chains of adamant 

'He has hams stewed in Madeira, and Perigord ) forged by an enchanter's power, 
pies, I dare say, at his Aunt Mostvn's,' John \ How could he be false to his little one, his help- 
thought, despairingly. 'What can I give him to less child, who had been confided to him in the 
•at?' / darkest hour of his existence; the hour in which 

But .John Marchmont, after the manner of the / his consumptive wife had yielded to the many 
poor, was apt to overestimate the extravagance '/ forces arrayed against her in life's battle, and 
of the rich. "If he could have seen the Mostyn j had left him alone in the world to fight for his 
breakfast then preparing in the lower regions of) little girl? 

Montague Square, he might have been consicfera-j 'If I were to die I think Arundel's mother 
bly relieved; for he would only have beheld'mi^d > would be kind to her ; ' John Marchra.rt thought, 
infusions of tea and coffee, in silver ussels, cer-jas h", finished his careful toilet. 'Heaven know* 
tainiy, f»ur French roils hidden under a glisten- \ I have no right to ask or expect such a thing; bit 
«ng damask napkin, six triangular fragments of* she will be rich by-atid-by, perhaps, and will be 
dry toast, cut from a stale half-quartern, four new i able to repay them.' 

laid eggs, and about half a pou-id of bacon cut A little hand knocked lightly at the door of iis 
into rashers of transcendental delicacy. Widow room while he was thinking this, and a childish 
ladies who have daughters to marry do not plunge l voice said : 

'May I come in, papa? 

very deep into the books of Messrs. Fortnum and / 

Mason. ? The" little girl slept" with one of the landlady'* 
'He^ used to like hot rolls when I was at Ver- ( children in a room above her father's. John open- 
flon s, John thought, rather more hopefully; '] ed the door and let her in. The pale wintry sun- 
wonder whether he I ikej hot rolls still?' > shine, creeping in at the curtainless window, near 
Pondering thus, Mr. Marchmont dressed him-^ which Mr. Marchmont sat, shone full'upon the 
f~ vev y neatly, very carefully; for he was one / child's face as she came toward him. It was a 
of those men whom even poverty cannot rob of J small, pale face, with singularly delicate features, 
man s proudest attribute, his individuality. He a tiny straight nose, a pensive mouth, and large 
m t- «. n ° noisy P rotest a S ainst the humiliations to ) thoughtful haze! eyes. The child's hair fell loose- 
whic* he was competed to submit; he uttered no ) ly upon her shfiulders; not in those corkscrew 
boisterous assertions of his own merit; he urged > curls so much affected by mothers in the humbler 
no clamorous demand to be treated as a gentle- / walks of life, nor yet in those crisp undulations 
man in his day of misfortune; but in his own mild, ; lately adopted in Belgravian nurseries, but in soft 
undemonstrative way he did assert himself, quite ; silken masses, only curling at the extreme end of 
as effectually as if he had raved all dav upon the J each tress. Miss Marchmont— she was always 
hardship of Ws lot; and drunk himself mad and ? called Miss Marchmont in that Oakley street 
«lind under the pressure of his calamities. He /household— wore her brown stuff frock and scanty 
never abandoned the habits which had been pe- ? diaper pinafore as neatly as her father wore his 
cuhar to bim from his childhood. He was as neat \ threadbare coat and darned linen. She was very 
*nd orderly in his second-floor back as he had / pretty, very lady-like, very interesting; but it was 
been seven or eight years before in his simple ) impossible to look at her without a vague feeling 
apartments at Cambridge. He did not recognize ? of pain that was difficult to understand. You 
that association which most men perceive be-? knew by-and-by why you were sorry for this little 
tween poverty and shirt-sleeves, or poverty and > girl. She had never been a child. That divine 
''"• H e was content to wear threadbare cloth ,'t period of perfect innocence— innocence of all sor- 
nut adhered most obstinately toa prejudice in favor '/ row and trouble, falsehood and wrong— that bright 
oi clean linen. He never acquired those lounging? holiday-time of the soul had never been hers.— 
vagabond habits peculiar to some men in the day The ruthless hand of poverty had snatched away 
of n° U f vjp among the supernumeraries ) from her the gift which God had given her in her 
lyuryLane he contrived to preserve his self- [ cradie; and at eight years old she was a woman- 
respect; if they nicknamed him Barking Jeremiah, U woman invested with all tV "' : - ~" f ^ : 

+l - . , * .». u «i »iu 6 u^icuuiiij , r a wuiuuii njvcaucu huh an that is most beauti- 

inhrin » £ arC 4K J t0 P ronounce that playful ful among womanly attributes— love, tenderness, 

out of h • eD i? S entleman - S uper was safely compassion, carefulness for others, unselfish devo- 

hi. ......"i^'* .? e was *° P ohte »» the midst of lion, uncomplaining patience, heroic endurance. 

hL.^ff^ju- P ! r . son who could wilfully J She was a woman by reason of all these virtues; 

fh.n »„! „, l h "2, r - US . t *, ave been more unkindly' but she was no longer a child. At three years old 

ih!t\h» y „Si * t Ma J e . !t y s servants. It is true she had bidden farewell forever to the ignorant 

.inn,n n .^hi, r ^ g ?K °? J 1101,8 '^an one occa- selfishness, the animal enjoyment of childhood, 
sion anostroohized th* ™,.vj™«..i ». ...,,» and had le ' arne(1 what u wa3 t0 be sorry for poor 

papa and mamma; and from that first time of 
awakening to the sense of pity and love, she had 
never ceased to be the comforter of the helpless 
young husband who was so soon to be left wife- 

John had been compelled to leave his child, in 
order to get a living for her and for himself in th» 
hard service of Mr. Laurence Vernon, the princi- 
pal of the highly select and expensive acadeir 


i apostrophized the weak-kneed banner-holder 

a- * M *h 'j(- h x SUper • c °ugh had peculiarly 

disturbed lis comp&sure; but the same great man 
gave poor John Marchmont a letter to a distin- 
guished physician, compassionately desiring the 
relief of the same pulmonary affection. If John 
Marchmont had not been prompted by his own in- 
stincts to struggle against the evil influences of 
poverty, he would have done battle sturdily for 
the sale* of one, who was tea times dearer to him 
iVh-'^w ».„„. ». _A ,. »* whieh Edwara Arundel and Martin Mostyn h 

Uh« muM fcftr* faccom* 4 nfindler orarepro- b«*n«4uo*t«d. BuUi«h»4 Wth«ingoo4itP 


and when the bitter day of his diJmissal came,<deur from the New Cut. She furnished the draw 
he was scarcely as sorry as he ought to have been i ing-room at March mont'Towers from me spien- 
for the calamity which brought him back to his > did stores of an upholsterer in that tnorou„niare 
little Mary. It is impossible for any words <S She laid flaming Brussels car pets upon the poi- 
mineto tell how much he loved the child; but < ished oaken floors which her father nao. described 
take into consideration his hopeless poverty, his', to her, and hung cheap satm damask 01 gorgeous 
lensitive and reserved nature, his utter )oneli-> colors before 'the great oriel windows.. ^ ne ,P ut 
ness, the bereavement that had cast a shadow up- \ gilded vases of gaudy artificial flowers on the nigh 
on his youth, and you will perhaps understand an \ carved mantle-pieces in the old rooms, and hung 
affection that was almost morbid in its intensity, ' ; a disreputable gray parrot— for sale at a green 
and which was reciprocated most fully by its ob- < grocer's, and given to the use of bad language— 
ject. The little girl loved her father too much.— < under the stone colonnade at the end of the west- 
When he was with her, she was content to sit by ' ern wing. She appointed the tradespeople who 
his side, watching him as he wrote; proud to help j should serve the far-away Lincolnshire household; 
him, if even by so much as wiping his pens, or J the, small matter of distance 'would, oi course, 
handing him his blotting-paper; happy to wait ^ever stand in the way of her gratitude and be- 
upon him, to go out marketing for him, to prepare fnevolence. Her papa would employ the civil 
his scanty meals, to make his tea, and arrange j green-grocev who gave such excellent half-pen- 
and re-arrange every object in the slenderly fur 1 ' ny-worths of water-cresses; the kind butter-man 
nished second-floor back-room. They talked i who took such pains to wrap up a quarter ,of & 
sometimes of the Lincolnshire fortune— the for- 1 pound of the best eighteen-penny fresh butter for 
tune which might come to Mr. Marchmont, if 'the customer whom he always called 'little lady.' 
three people, whose lives were each worth three 'the considerate butcher who never cut wore than 
times John's feeble existence, would be so obli- 'j the three-quarters of a pound of rump-steak, 
ging as to clear the way for the heir-at-law, by J which made an excellent dinner for Mr. March- 
taking an early departure to the church-yard. A { mont and his little girl. Yes, all these people 
more practical man than John Marchmont would < should be rewarded wlien the Lincolnshire pro- 
have kept a sharp eye upon these three lives, and 5 perty came to Mary's papa. Miss Marchmont had 
by some means or other contrived to find out whe-'i some thoughts of building a shop close to March- 
ther number one was consumptive, or number'^ mont Towers for the accommodating butcher, and 
two dropsical, or number three apoplectic; buUof adopting the green-grocer's eldest daughter for 
John was utterly incapable of any such Machia-J her confidante and companion. Heaven knows 
vellian proceeding, t think he sometimes beguiled ', how many times the little girl narrowly escaped 
his weary walks between Oakley Street and Dru- ] being run over while walkjfcg the material streets 
ry Lane by the dreaming of such childish day- j in some ecstatic reverie such as this! but Provi- 
dreams as I should be almost ashamed to set { dence was very careful of the motherless girl; 
down upon this sober page. The three lives might ', and she always returned to Oakley street with her 
all happen to be riding in the same express upon j pitiful little purchases of tea and sugar, butler 
the occasion of a terrible collision; but the poor i and meat. You will say, perhaps, that at least 
fellow's gentle nature shrank appalled before the these foolish day-dreams were childish; but I 
vision he had invoked. He could not sacrifice a \ maintain still that Mary's soul had longagobadt 
whole trainful of victims even for little Mary. — i adieu to infancy, and that even in these visions 
He contented himself with. borrowing a Times \ she was womanly; for she was always thoughtful 
newspaper now and then, and looking at the top 'c of others rather than of herself, and there was* 
of the second column, with the faint hope that he ? great deal more of the practical business of life 
should s/e his own name in large capitals, coupled 1 mingled with the silver web of fancies than thert 
with the announcement that by* applying some- > should have been so soon after her eighth birth- 
where he might hear of something to his advan- > day. At times-, too, an awful horror would quick- 
tage. He contented himself wifh this, and with > en the pulses of her loving heart as she heard th« 
talking about the future to - little Mary in the dim / hacking sound of her father's cough; and a terri- 
firelight. They spent long hours in the shadowy > ble dread would seize her— the fear that Jehn 
room, only lighted by the faint flicker of a pitiful 5 Marchmont might never live to inherit the Lin- 
handful of coals; for the commonest dip-candles > colnshire fortune. The child never said her pray- 
are sevenpence half-penny a pound, and were ; ers without adding a little extempore supplication, 
dearer, I dare say, in the year 38. Heaven knows that she might die when her father died. It was 
what splendid castles in the air these two simple- J a wicked prayer, perhaps; and a clergyman might 
hearted creatures built for each other s pleasure ; have taught her that her life was in the hands of 
by that comfortless hearth. I believe that, though Providence; and that it might please Him who 
the father made a pretense of talking of these had created her to doom her to many desolate 
things only for the amusement ofhis child, he was $ years of loneliness; and that it was not for her, 
actually the more childish of the two. It was in her wretched and helpless ignorance, to rebel 
only when he left that fire lit room, and went back against His divine will. I think if the Arehbishop 
into the hard, reasonable, commonplace world, .of Canterbury had driven from Lambeth Palace 
that he remembered how foolish the talk was, to Oakley Street to tell little Mary this* he would 

a nd how it war taP^-y^ S S roJ?T tl,at a rT 6 ta "? hl her in ^> and that she would have 

he, the law-writer and supernumerary .could ever fallen asleep that night with the old prayer upon 

come to be master of Marchmont Towers. h e r li ps , th l e fond & u h J ™ e ~^ t / he bond, 

Poor little Mary was in this less practica than which love had woven so firmlv might neyer b. 

her father. She carrifed her day-dreams into the roughly broken by death 7 S 

street, until all Lambeth was made glorious by Miss Marchmont heard the story f last nieht'i 

their supernal radiance. Her imagination ran meeting with great pleasure, tho„ Kh it mug t be 

riot in a vision of a happy future, in which her owned she looked a little grave wll^ 8h " ' was told 

father would be rich ami powerful. I am sorry that the generous-hearted aehooU, " "•, *"_££ 
few? 5S2» domed moitQf her id«M of graa-f tobrnkfasf. butW B ra T ,t y *., ^"^f 


thoughtful housekeeper, who ponders ways and I 'We could have haddocks every day at March- 
means, and, even while you are telling herthefmont Towers, couldn't we, papa? she said, 
number and quality of your guests, sketches out [naively. 

a rough ground-plan of ner dishes, ponders the fish j" But the little girl was more than delighted when 
in season, and the soups most fitting to precede Edward Arundel dashed up the narrow staircase 
them, and balances the contending advantages and burst into the room, fresh, radiant, noisy, 
of Palestine and Julienne, of Hare and Italian. splendid, better dressed even than the waxen 
'A "nice" breakfast, you say, papa,' she said, j preparations of elegant young gentlemen exhibi- 
when her father had finished, speaking, 'then we i ted at the portal of a great outfitter in the New 
must have water-cresses, of course.' j Cut, and yet not at all like either of those red- 

'And hot rolls, Polly dear. Arundel was always j lipped types of fashion. How delighted the boy 
fond of hot rolls-. ' j declared himself with every thing ! He had driven 

'And hot rolls, four for threepence half-penny over in a cabriolet, and he was awfully hungry, 
in the Cut ' — (I am ashamed to say that this be- j he informed his host. The rolls and water-cresses 
nighted child talked as deliberately of the 'Cut' j disappeared before him as if by magic; little Mary 
as she might have done of the 'B.ow. ') — 'There'll j shivered at the slashing cuts he made at the but- 
be one left for tea, papa- for we could never eat! ter; the haddock had scarcely left the gridiron 
four rolls. They'll take such a lot of butter, [ before it was no more. 

though. j 'This is ten times better than Aunt Mostyn's 

The little housekeeper took out an antediluvian! skinny breakfasts,' the young gentleman observed 
bead purse, and began to examine her treasury, (candidly. 'You never get enough with her. Why 
Her father handed all his money td her, as he ^does she say, "You won't take another egg, will 
would have done to his wife; and Mary doled him \ you, Edward?" if she wants me to have one? — 
out the little sums he wanted — money for half an {, You should see our hunting breakfasts at Danger- 
ounce of tobacCo, money for a pint of beer.-— < field, Marchmont. Four sorts of. claret, and no 
There were no penny papers in those days, or < end of Moselle and Champagne. You shall go 
what a treat an occasional Telegraph would have < to Dangerfield some day to see my mother, Miss 
been to poor John Marchmont! j Mary.' , 

Mary had only one personal extravagance. — < He called her 'Miss Mary,' and seemed rather 
She read novels— rdirty, bloated, ungainly volumes < shy of speaking to her. Her womanliness im- 
— which she borrowed from a snuffy old woman $ pressed him in spite of himself. He had a fancy 
in a little back street, who charged her the small- < that she was old enough to feel the humiliation 
est hire ever known in the circulating-library < of her father's position, and to be sensitive upon 
■business, and who admired her as a wonder of < the matter of the two-pair back; and he was 
precocious erudition. The only pleasure the l sorry the moment after he had spoken of Danger- 
child knew in her father's absence was the peru-s field. 

sal of these dingy pages; she neglected no dutyj 'What a snob I am !' he thought; 'always brag- 
she forgot no tender office of ministering care for \ ging of home. ' 

the loved one who was absent; but when all the? But Mr. Arundel was not able to stop very long 
little duties had been finished, how delicious it in Oakley street, for the supernumerary had to 
was to sit down to 'Madeleine the Deserted,' and \ attend a rehearsal at twelve o'clock; so at half 
'Cosmos the Pirate,' and to lose herself far away < past eleven John Marchmont and his pupil went 
in illimitable regions,. peopled by wandering printout together, and little Mary was left alone to 
cesses in white satin, and gentlemanly bandits, £ clear away the breakfast, and perform the rest of 
who had been stolen from theirroyalfathers'halls )her household duties. 

by vengeful hordes of gipsies. In these early j She had plenty of time before her, so she did 
years of poverty and loneliness John Marchmont's | not begin at once, but sat upon a stool near the 
daughter stored up, in a mind that was morbidly J fender, gazing dreamily at the low fire, 
sensitive rather than strong, a terrible amount of i 'How good and kind he is!' she thought; 'just 
dim poetic sentiment; the possession of which is '/ like Cosmos — only Cosmos was dark; or like 
scarcely, perhaps, the best or safest dower for a ^Reginald Ravenscroft— but then he was dark too. 
young lady who has life's journey all before her. ? I, wonder why the people in novels are always 

simple prepa-jj dark? How kind he is to papa ! Shall 

At half past nine o'clock all the simple prepa- jjdark? How kind he is to papa ! Shall we ever 
rations necessary for the reception of a visitor Jgo to Dangerfield, I wonder, papa and me? Of 

had been completed by Mr. Marchmont and his 2 course I wouldn't go without papa, 
daughter. All vestiges of John 's bed had disap- 't 
peared; leaving, it is true, rather a suspicious i 

looking mahogany chest of drawers to mark the 

spot where once a bed had been. The window / 

had been opened, the room aired and dusted a '/ CHAPTER III. 

^mni^lriK"^ in . tb V h A? in 6. F a £. and \ AB0UT THE UKCOLNIHIM PROPERTY. 

the most brilliant of tin tea-kettles hissed upon \ 

the hob. The white table-cloth was darned in/ While Mary sat absorbed in such idle v' 

several places; but it was a remnant of the small / as these, Mr. Marchmont and his old pupil 

stock of linen with which John had begun mar- /toward Waterloo Bridge together. 

ried life; and the Irish damask asserted its supe- i Til go as far as the theatre with v 

rior quality, in spite of many darns, as positively >mont,' the boy said; 'it's my holkl?" 

as Mr. Marchmont's good blood asserted itself in / know, and I can do as t like. I'm 

spite of his shabby coat. A brown tea-pot full J vate tutor in another month, and 

of strong tea, a plate of French rolls, a pat of 'me for the army. I want you tr 

fresh butter, and a broiled haddock, do not com- i that Lincolnshire property, ' 

pose a very epicurean repast; but Mary March- (where near Swampin^ton ?' 

mont looked at tho humble breakfast as a pro-/ 'Yes; within nine miles 

•pective success. \ <Go»'«tatn gracious ir 


what an extraordinary coincidence ! My uncle < or, having issue, failing to cut off the entail, I be- 
Hubert's Rector of Swampington— such a'hole ! 1 hieve they call it.' 

go there sometimes to see him and my cousin^ 'Arthur! that's the son of the present pos-. 
Olivia. Isn't she a stunner, though! Knows more jsessor?' ,. , ., , . , . 

Greek and Latin than me, and more mathematics ', 'Yes. If I and my poor little girl, who is aei- 
than you. Could eat our heads off - at any thing. ' > icate like her mother, should die before either or 

John Marchmont did not seem very much im- ''these three men, there is another who will stand 
pressed by the coincidence that appeared so extra- ' in my shoes, and who will look out perhaps more 
ordinary to Edward Arundel; but, in order to (eagerly than I have done for his chances of getting 
oblige his friend, he explained very patiently and Uhe property.' 

lucidly how it was that only three lives stood be- \ 'Another !' exclaimed Mr. Arundel. 'By Jove, 
tween him and the possession of Marchmont ; ; Marchmont, it's the most complicated alt air 1 
Towers, and all lands and tenements appertaining s ever heard of ! It's worse than those sums you 
thereto. r !• used to set me in barter: "If A sells B 999 Stilton 

'The estate's a very large one,' he said, finally; ', cheeses at 9id. a pound," and all that sort of 
'but the idea of my ever getting it is, of course, < thing, you know. Do make me understand it, old 
too preposterous. ' I fellow, if you can.' 

'Good gracious me ! 1 don'tsee that at all, 'ex- \ John Marchmont sighed, 
claimed Edward, with extraordinary vivacity. — j 'It's a wearisome story, Arundel,' he said. 'I 
'Let me see. old fellow; if I understand your story {don't know whv I should bore you with it.' 
right, this is how the case stands: your first cousin \ 'But you don't bore me with it,' cried the boy,' 
is the present possessor of Marchmont Towers; ^energetically. 'I'm awfully interested in it, you 
he has a son, fifteen years of age, who may or > t know; and 1 could walkup and down here all day 
may not marry; only one son, remember. But he ^talking about it.' 

has also an uncle— a bachelor uncle— who, by the '. The two gentlemen had passed the Surrey toll- 
terms of your grandfather's will, must get the j gate of Waterloo Bridge by this time. The South- 
property before you can succeed to it. Now', this ( western Terminus had not been built in the year 
uncle of the present possessor is an old man; of (, '38, and the bridge was about the quietest thor- 
course he'll die soon. The present possessor him- ioughfare any two companions confidentially in- 
self is a middle-a;ed man; so I shouldn't think J clined could have chosen. The share-holders 
he can be likely to last iong. I dare say he drinks £ knew this, to their cost. 

too much port, or hunts, or something of that I Perhaps Mr. Marchmont might have been be- 
sort; goes to sleep after dinner, and does all man- ;, guiled into repeating the old story, which he had 
ner of apoplectic things, I'll *be bound. Then \ told so often in the dim fire-light to his little girl, 
there's the son. only fifteen, and not yet mar- i but the great clock of St. Paul's boomed forth the 
riageable; consumptive, I dare say. Now, will < twelve ponderous strokes that told the hour of 
you tell me the ohin?.es are not six to six he dies j noon; and a hundred other steeples, upon either 
unmarried ? So, you see. my dear old'boy, you're ;" side of the water, made themselves clamorous 
sure to get the fortune; for there's nothing to keep '(, with the same announcement, 
you out of it. exct-pt — ' > t 'I must leave you, Arundel,' the supernumerary 

'Except three lives, the worst of whieh is bet-;; said, hurriedly; he had just remembered that it 
ter than mine. It's kind of you to look at it in this \ was time for him to go and be brow-beaten by a 
sanguine way. Arundel; but I wasn't born to be a J truculent stage-manager. 'God bless you, my 
rich man. Perhaps, after all, Providence has <; dear boy! It was very good of you to want to see 
used me better than I think. I mightn't have been I me; and the sightof yourfresh face has made me 
happy at Marchmos.t Towers. I'm a shy, awk- > very happy. I should like you to understand all 
wa<d, humdrum feiiow. If it wasn't for Mary V / about the Lincolnshire property. God knows 
sake — ' > there's small chance of its ever coming to me or 

'Ah, to be sure! 'cried Edward Arundel. 'You re < r to my child; but when I am dead and gone Mary 
not going to forget all about— Mi-s Marchmont !' J will be left alone in the world, and it would be 
he was g')ing to say 'little Mary,' but had checked j some comfort to me to know that she was not 
himself abruptly at the sudden recollection of tht; .vithout one friend— generous and disinterested 
earnest hazel eyes that had kept wondering watch > like you, Arundel— who, if the chance did come, 
upon his ravages at the breakfast-table. '1 m sure { would see her righted.' 
Miss Marchmont'* horn to be an heiress; I never I- 'And so I would,' cried the boy, eagerly, 
saw such a little princess.' J His face flushed, and his eyes fired. He was a 

'What!' demanded Johri Marchmont, sadly, 'in \ P reux chevalier already, in thought, going forth 

a darned pinafore and a threadbare frock ?' ho do battle for a hazel-eyed mistress 

The boy's face flushed, almost indignantly, as ? Til wr it e the storv, Arundel 'John 

The boy's face flushed,, almost inaignanuy, as i Til wr it e the story, Arundel,' John Marchmont 
his old master said this. ,,»,., T .j^ saul; ' IVe "o time to tell it, and you mightn't 

'You don 'tthink me such a snob as to think I di remember it either. " ■'..*> 

'You don't think me sucn a snou as io unm, i a ; rememher it either. Once more, good-bye! once 
admire a bdj'— he ' >-poke thus of Miss Mary \ more, God bless you!' 
Marchmont, jet midway between her eighth and} < b top!> exclaimed Edward Arundel, flushing a 
ninth birthd,y-Hhe less because sK,WHsnt rich .^deeper red than before-he had a very boyish 
But of cou se your daughter will have the for- > habit of blushing-'stop, dear old boy. You must 
tune by-and-by, even if- . ; borrow this of me; please. I've lots of them. 

He stopped, ashamed of h.s .want .of tact for j j should only spend it on all sort, of bilious 
he knew John would divine the meaning oi that j things; or stop out late and get tipsy. You shall 
sudden p»use. . .. , , £?? me witn interest when you ge t Marchmont 

•Even if I should die before Philip Marchmont,' Towers. I shall come and see f ou ; ^ soon- 
the teacher of mathematics answered, quietly.- Good-bye.' , gam * 

<As far as that goes. Mary's chance is as remote The lad forced some ■ « W^d »c rap of Daner 
i. m owu The fortune can only come to her j into his old tutor's hand, ^^.^u^tiiJtoii? 



stepping charger was .dawdling along Lancaster ' frank and careless boy, to realize the feelings of 
Place. i a man who looks at his only child, and remem- 

The supernumerary hurried on to Drury Lane > bers that she may soon be left helpless and de- 
as fast as his weak legs could carry him. He was I fenceless to fight the battle of life with a bad man. 
obliged to wait for a pause in the rehearsal before j Sometimes 1 pray to God that the Marchmont 
he could find an opportunity of looking at the ' property may never come to my child after my 
parting gift which his old pupil had forced upon) death; for 1 can not rid myself of the thought— 
him. It was a crumpled and rather dirty five- j may Heaven forgive me for its unworthiness !— 
pound note, wrapped round two half crowns', a i that Paul Marchmont would leave no means un 

shilling, and half a sovereign 

tried, however foul, to wrest the fortune from her. 

'The'boy had given his friend the last remnant j I dare say worldly people would laugh at me for 
of his slender stock of pocket-money. John March- j writing this letter to you, my dear Arundel; but ] 
mont turned his face to the dark wing that shel- , address myself to the best friend I have — the only 
tered him and wept silently. He was of a gentle ( creature I know whom the influence of a bad man 
and rather womanly disposition, be it remea- J is never likely to corrupt. Noblesse oblige! lam 
bered; and he was in that weak state of health in i not afraid that Edward Dangertield Arundel will 
which a man's eyes are apt to moisten, in spite of beiray any trust, however foolish, that may have 
himself, under the influence of any unwonted s been confided to him. 
emotion. i 'Perhaps, in writing to you thus, 1 may feel 

He employed a part of that afternoon in wri- j something of that blind hopefulness — amidst the 
ting the letter which he had promised to send to shipwreck of all that commonly gives birth to 

his boyish friend. 

'Mr Dear Arundel, — My purpose in writing 
to you to-day is so entirely Connected with the 
future welfare of my beloved and only child, that 
I shall carefully abstain from any subject not con- 
nected with her interests. I say nothing, there 

hope— which the mariner, cast away upon some 
desert island, feels when he seals his simple story 
in a bottle, and launches it upon the Waste of 
waters that close him in on every Before 
my little girl is four years older }ou will be a man, 
Arundel; with a man's intellect, a man's courage, 

„ , _, ,_,, and, above all, a man's keen si-nse of honor. So 

fore, respecting your conduct of this morning, j long as my darling remains pcor, her humble 
which, together with my previous knowledge of friends will be strong enough to protect her; but 

your character, has decided me upon confiding to 
you the doubts and fears which have, long tor- 
mented me upon the subject of my darling's fu- 
•I am a doomed man, -Arundel. The doctors 

if ever Providence should think fit to place her in 
a position of antagonism to Paul Marchmont — 
for he would look upon any one, as an enemy who 
stood between him and fortune — she would need 
a far more powerful protector than any she could 

have told me this; but they have told me also that, i find among her puor mother's relatives. Will you 
though I can never escape the sentence of death be that protector, Edward Arundel? I am a 
which was passed upon me long ago, I may live \ drowning man, you see, and catch at the frailest 
for some years if I live the careful life which only straw that floats past me. 1 believe in you, Ed- 
a rich man can lead. If I go on carrying ban- j ward, as much as I distrust Paul Marchmont. If 
ners and breathing sulphur, 1 cannot last long. — the day ever comes in which my little girl should 
My little girl will be left penniless, butinot quite \ have to struggle with this man, will you help her 
friendless; for there are humble pewple, relatives j to fight the battle ? It will not be an easy one. 
of her poor mother, who would help her, kindly I J 'Subjoined to this letter 1 send you an extract 
am sure, in their own humble way. The trials i from the copy of my grandfather's will, which 
which I fear for my orphan girl are not so much will explain to you how he left his property. Do 
the trials of poverty as the dangers of wealth. — not lose either the letter or the extract. If you 
If the three men who, on my death, would alone > are willing to undertake the trust which I confide 
stand between Mary and the Lincolnshire proper- to you to-day, you may have need to refer to them 
ty, die childless, my poor darling will become the | after my death. The legacy of a child's help- 

lessness is the only bequest which lean I eave to the 
only friend I have. John Marchmont. 

.'27 Oaklet St., Lambeth, Dec. 30, 1838. 


I give and devise all that my estate known as March- 
mont Towers and appurtenances thereto belonging to the 
use of my eldest son Philip Marchmont during his natural 
life without impeachment of waste and from and after his 

only obstacle in the pathway of a man whom, 1 
will freely own to you, I distrust. ) 

'My father, John Marchmont, Was the third of > 
four brothers. The eldest, Philip', died, leaving ■> 
one son, also called Philip, and the present pos- > 
sessor of Marchmont Towers/ The second, Mar- > 
maduke, is still alive, a bachelor. The third,? 
John; left four children, of whom I alone survive. I 
The fourth, Paul, left a son and two daughters. \ 
The son is an artist, exercising his profession now ? decease then to the use of my grandson Philip the first 

in London; one of the daughters is married to a ?£ n °L m l *. &id "op'™"? ? ur!n ? the * e ™ ° f .||» "? atural 
. , ' , .■ li. c n • t . life without impeachment of waste and after the decease 

parish surgeon, who practices at Stanfield, in Lm- 5 f my sa i<i grandson Philip to the use of the first and every 
colnshire; the other is an old maid, and entirely j other son of my said grandson severally and suoaessively 
dependent upon her brother. \ according to their respective seniority in tail and for da- 

rn ia thio man Paul Maivhrnrint trip onfiot 5 fault ° f sucn issue to tne use ot a11 and eTer y the daugh- 

U is tnis man, raui warenmont, tne artist, ters and daughtei . of my said grandson Philip as tenants 

Whom 1 lear. . (i n <. ommon i n tail with cross remainders between or 

'Do not think me weak, or foolishly suspicious, S amongst them in tail and if all the daughters of my said 
Arundel, when I tell you that the very thought of grandson Philip except one shall die without issue or if 
this man M^^«£*^W^ ^tad, ^^J^JS&^t^^S^^^ 
and seems to stop the beating ot my heart. 1 know issue then to the use of the second and every other son of 
that this is a prejudice, and an unworthy one. I j my said eldest son severally and successively accordingto 
do not believe Paul Marchmont is a good man; Mb respective seniorityTn tail and in default pf « UC h isfue 
but I cafi assign no : 
and terror of Ttim. 



in default of such issue to the use of my second son Mar- < of bricks to your ever 
maduke and his assigns during the term of his natural / man an d brother, 
life without, impeachment of waste and after his decease to ; 
the use of the first and .every son of my said son Slarma- ' 
duke severally a. d successively according td their respect ' 

devoted friend, country- 
man, ana Dromer, _ Ebgaup 
42 Montague Square, Dec. 31, 1S3S.' 
P. S. By-the-by, don't you think a situation ^ in 

ive seniorities" in tail and for "default ~of'sur.h Issue "t"o "the ) a lawyer's office would suit you better than ne 
use of all and every the daughters and daughter of my said/ f n D. L.? If you do, I think I could manage 
" nn iwa.rm»fl,iw «. tenant., in , ,„ ♦„,, _,„. „.„.. ( .* • ^ ^py ne w year to Miss Mary !' 

It was thus that Mr. Edward Arundel accepted 
the solemn trust which his friend confided to him 
in all simplicity and good faith. Mary March- 
mont herself was not more innocent in the ways 

son Marmaduke as tenants in common in tail with cross 

remainders between or amongst them in tail and if all the 

daughters of my said son Marmaduke except one shall die 

without issue or if there shall be but one such daughter 

then to the use of such one or only daughter in tail and in 

default of such issue then to the use pf my third son John 

during the term of his natural life without impeachment 

of waste and from and after his decease then to the use of 

my grandson John the first son of my said son John dur- ', f the'world outside uaKiey o;rcci, "">" aiciiw 

ing the term of his natural life without impeachment of D onr i an d the New Cut, than was the little girl S 

waste and after the decease of my said grandson John to £"j*"' thm£ see med more natural to him than 

the useof the first and every other son of my said grand- lather, noinms sc / 3 " fl]tlirl> _f >,:„ nn > v rll :ij tn 

son John severally and successively according to their re- ' to intrust the doubttul luture 01 ms only cmiQ 10 

spective seniority in tail and for default of such issue to > t ne brieht-faced, handsome boy , whose early boy 

the use of all and every the daughters and daughter of my / . ,. w ?j ),«„„ unblemished by a mean sentiment 

said grandson John as tenants in common in tai 

cross remainders between or among them in tail and if al! ) 

l°l%Z '< hood had been unblemished by 

CrUSB'ICUiftii 1 ^ 111 uc^ittu vji £iiiiun5 u.j^jii in wwi (tiiu 11 till ' Or H Q1SI1UI1U1 aU t . 

the daughters of my said grandson John except one shall [ spent three years in the JierKsnire Academy, at 
die without issue orif there shall be but one such daugh- \ w n [ c jj Edward and his cousin, Martin Mostyn* 
ter' [This, you will see, is my little Mary] 'then to the use ; , , , P( Wated; and young Arundel, who was 

of suchoneor only daughter in tail and in default of such J 

Issue Sen to the use of the second and every other son of \ far behind' his kinsman in the comprehension of a 
my said third son John severally and successively accord- S problem in algebra, had been wise enough to rec- 

and in default of such issue to the- u3e of my fourth son j f mathematics and his handsome pupil; and il 
.Paul during the term of his natural life without impeach- { was thus that an unreasoning belief in Edward 
ment of waste and from and alter Inn decease then to the ■ . -,1,1 ■ • t' w > -™ i _■ j 

use of my grandson Paul the son of my said son Paul dur- ] Arundel had sprung up in John s simple mind. 
ing his natural life without impeachment of waste and ■ 'If my little girl were certain of inheriting the 
after the decease of my said grandson Paul to the use of ( fortune,' Mr. Marchmont thought, 'I might find 
the first and every other son of my said grandson severally / any who wou l d be gia( J to accept my trust, and 

and successively according to their respective seniority ) . J , „„n ^ r -n.r 11 r> m. i 

in tail and for default of such issue to the use of all and to serve her wel1 and faithfully. But the chance 
every the daughters and daughter of my said grandson ' is such a remote one. I cannot forget how the 
Paul as tenants in common in tail with cross remainders '. Jews laughed at me two years aeo, when I tried' 
between or amongst tiie.u in tail and if all the daughters ; t borrow money upon my reversionary interest. 
uf mv said grandson Paul except one shal, die without ssue . „ T 1.1. ± *i • u 1 * j 1 r 1 1_ 

or if there shall be but ope such daughter then to the use . No, I must trU9t tlu ? br ^ e -«earted boy, for I have 
of such one or only daughter in tail and in default of such ; no one else, to confide in.; and who else is there 
issue then to the use of the second and every other son of '', wn0 would Dot ridicule my fear of my COUSia 
my said fourth son Paul severally and successively accord- 'p„,,i ;> 

ing to his respective seniority in tail and in default of such ■,,", n ,. ,, 1 t i j . , 

issue to the use of ail and every. the daughters and daugh- ■ indeed Mr. Marchmont had some reason to be 
t»r of my said fourth son Paul as tenant^in common in tail ', considerably ashamed of his antipathy to the 
with cross remainders between or amongst them in tail.,' ', young artist, working for his bread, and for the 
etc- > * c- '. bread of his invalid mother and unmarried sister, 

<P. S. Then comes what the lawyers call a M that bitter winter of '38; working patiently and 
general devise — to trustees to preserve the con- 'hopefully, in spite of all discouragement, and con- 
tingent remainders before devised from being de- -tent to live a joylese and monotonous life .in a 
stroyed; but what that means perhaps you can : dingy lodging near Fitzroy Square. I can find no 
get somebody to tell me. I hope it may be some /excuse for John Marchmont's prejudice against 
legal jargon to preserve my rn-y contingent re- 'an industrious and indefatigable, who. 
mainder, as it appears to me.' ; wa s the sole support of two helpless women.4> 

> Heaven knows, if to be adored by two women is 
The tons of Edward Arundel s answer to this ; any evidence of a man's virtue, Paul must have- 
letter was more characteristic of the writer than;, been the hest of men; for Stephanie Marchmont 
in. harmony with poor John s solemn appeal. jaad her daughter Clarisse regarded the. artist with 

<You dear, foolish old Marchmont,' the lad UZZ^ ^17 ^ was "Without a tinge 

wrote- .*" course I shall take care of Miss Mary; John HfaUke of his cousin" 'tS° D ' ??l £ " 

and mV mother shall adopt her , and she shall live \ S T t\ iuawt it 9 lit I I T he ? had , bee , n 

atDTngerfield,and be educated with my sister \ ^It^liinofl^ ™ hurha \ scl \°°i' 

TPtitia who has the jolliest French governess, \ZTJ^ IJ a , } P°or people were boardedr 

and a German maid for conversation; and doj^ Pful&d oftS- aU th e / ear r0Und for a P 1 ^ 

"t Baal Marchmont try on any of his games with JJ S S,e 2cW St, U W Tenty P T d8 "~ 

Ahat's'all' But what do you mean, von *Y special points of the prospectus was 

^i'cutus talkipg ab'out dying,' Sd &T.TO ^ Ltmas ?T ^r^ 

drowning, and shipwrecked mariners, and catch- whirh ^Zt ,1 r w ^gatherings of merry faces 

S straws and all that sort of humbug, when r, ' C f, T ^ *? the wea ^ th y <>»*«» of 

vol knowTe'ry well that you'll live to inherk the §S V ™ V^fr*?* ■ apother c ^ 

HcSire property aid that IJn coming to ^fitS mSSjlS 

you wery year to shoot andthat you re going to Lf raw-boned lads clamorous f W ffi?* e "ft 

build a tennis-court-^ f cou|e the* . , . ^b Ihard- two boys had met at . school o£ fc^l ^ 

a w;iHiio-w«». , or . -v --.»- lwo D0 y s naa meI ai n ="", ~ "* Hi, „„i:i. ■ 

lwum -and that you're going to have a stud of had ne ^ er me t M.nce. Th.y a^ 1 ^ wdibre ,an4 
hmUtt, *nd l> e master of the hounds » and no e »d i the best friends, perjiaps, at the dassi^a™ been; 



jut their quarrels were by no means desperate. \ son, as copying and outdoor clerk, at a salary of 
They may have rather freely discussed their sev- J thirty shillings a week. 

jral chances of the Lincolnshire property; but I J So" little Mary entered now upon a golden age, 
lave no romantic story to tell of a stirring scene ; in which her evenings were no longer desolate and 
n, the humble school-room, no exciting record of; lonely, but spent pleasantly with her father in the 
ieadly insult and deep vows of vengeance. No J study of such learning as was suited to her years, 
nkstand'was ever flung by one boy into the face ', or perhaps rather to her capacity, which was far 
>f the other; uo savage blow from a horsewhip beyond her years; and on certain delicious nights, 
sver cut a fatal scar across the brow of either of to be remembered ever afterward, John March- 
he cousins. John Marehmont would have been J mont took his liule girl to the gallery of one or 
ilmostas puzzled to account for his objection to pother of the transpontine theatres: arid 1 am sorry 
lis kinsman as was the nameless gentleman who { to say that my heroine — for she is to be my hero- 
iO naively confessed his dislike of Dr. Fell, ffearjine by-and-by — sucked oranges, ate Abernethy 
hat a great many of our likings and dislikings \ biscuits, and cooled her delicate nose against the 
ire too apt to be upon the Dr. Fell principle. — ; iron railing of the gallery, after the manner of the 
Mr. Wilkie Collins's Basil could not tell why he ] masses when they enjoy the British Drama, 
'ell madly in love with the lady whom it was his J But all this time John Marehmont was utterly 
•vil fortune to meet in an omnibus; nor why he £ ignorant of one rather important fact in the his- 
'ntertained an uncomfortable feeling about the (tory of those three lives which he was apt to 
entleman who was to be her destroyer. David \ speak of as standing between him and Marehmont 
'!opperfield disliked Uriah Heep even before he (Towers. Young Arthur Marehmont, the imme- 
1 ad any substantial reason for objecting to the jdiate heir of the estate, had been shot to death 
'vil genius of Agnes Wickfield's father. The j upon the 1st of September, 1838, without blame 
oy disliked the snake-like schemer of Canterbury J to any one or any thing but his own boyish care- 
ecause his eyes were round and red, and his (lessness, which had induced him to scramble 
ands clammy and unpleasant to the touch. Per- \ through a hedge with a superb fowling-piece, the 
aps John Marcbmont's reasons for his aversion ^costly present of a doti<ig father, loaded ai'd on 
>> his cousin were about as substantial as these of \ full-cock. This melancholy event, which had 
Haster Copperfield's. It may be that the school-) been briefly recorded in all the newspapers, had 
3y disliked his comrade because Paul March- < never reached the knowledge of poor John March- 
'.ont's handsome gray eyes were a little too near \ mont, who had no friends to busy themselves 
igether; because his thin and delicately-chiseled ■) about his interests, or to rush eagerly to carry him 
ps were a thought too tightly compressed; be- ', any intelligence affecting his prosperity. Nor had 
luse his cheeks would fade to an awful corpse- \ he- read the obituary notice respecting Marma- 
ke whiteness under circumstances which would \duke Marehmont, the bachelor, who had breathed 
: ive brought the rushing life-blood, hot and red, ', his last stertorous breath in a fit of apoplexy ex- 
f to another boy's face; because he was silent and ;, actly one twelvemonth before thedey upon which 
ippressed when it would have been more natural ', Edward Arundel had breakfasted in Oakley 
be loud and clamorous; because he could smile'] Street. 
4der provocations that would have made another '. 

own; because, in short, there was that about ', __ 

m which, let it be found where it will, always > 
ves birth to suspicion — mystery. 

So the cousins had parted, neither friends nor ) CHAPTER IV 

;es, to tread their separate roads in the unknown '■ 

juntry, which is apt to seem barren and desolate \ going aivay. 

lough to travellers who foot it in hob-nailed 

jots considerably the worse for wear; and as the \ Enw akd Abuxdei. went from Montague Square 
an hand of poverty held John Marehmont even ;! straight into the household of the private tutor 
jther back than Paul upon the hard road which i of whom he had spoken, there to complete his had to tread, the quiet pride of the teacher ', education, and to be prepared for the onerous du- 
:' mathematics most effectually kept him out of/ ties of a military life. From the household of 
s kinsman's way. He had only heard enough:' his private tutor he went at once into a cavalry 
' Paul to know that he was living in London, J regiment, after sundry examinations, which were 
id working hard for a living; working as hard ; not nearly so stringent in the year one thousand 
; i John himself, perhaps, but- at least able to height hundred and forty as they have since be- 
^ep afloat in a higher social position than the '> come. Indeed, I think the unfortunate young ca- 
w-stationer's hack and the banner-holder of /dets who are educated upon the high-pressure sys- 
rury Lane. '; tern, and who are expected to give a. synopsis of 

But Edward Arundel did not.forget his friends j Portuguese political intrigue during the eighteenth 
i Oakley Street. The boy made a morning call i century, a scientific account of the currents of 
pon his father's solicitors, Messrs. Paulette, ; the Red Sea, and a critical disquisition upon the 
aulette, and Mathewson, of Lincoln's Inn Fields, i comedies of Aristophanes as compared with those 
id was so extremely eloquent in his needy of Pedro Calderon de la Barca — not forgetting to 
iend's cause as to provoke the good-natured glanceat the effect of different ages and nafionali- 
otghter of one of the junior partners, who de- \ ties upon the respective minds of the two play- 
ared that Mr. Edward Arundel ought to wear (Wrights, within a given period of, say half an hour 
silk gown before he was thirty. The result of — would have envied Mr. Arundel for the easy 
lis interview was, that before the first month of manner in which he obtained his commission in a 
le new year was out, John Marehmont had aban- distinguished cavalry regiment. Edward Arundel 
oned the classic banner and the demoniac mask therefore inaugurated the .commencement of the 
j a fortunate successor, and had taken possession year 1840 by plunging very deeply into the books 
,f a hard-seated, slim-legged stool in one of the 1 of a crack military tailor in New Burlington 
fficeaof Messrs. Paulette, Paulette, and Mathew- 1 Street, and by *. visit to Dangerfield Park, where 


he went to make his adieus before sailing for} you? You couldn't help doing so lj ".fj°" w _^ re ° 
India, whither his regiment had just been ordered, (see her. She's not like a child, you . 

I do not doubt that Mrs. Arundel was vervsor- j bit like Letilia. She is as grave »"° S u '{£™ J" 
rowfulat this sudden parting with her ve'ilow- : are, mother— or graver, I think; r ,hibbv nin! 
haired younger son. The boy. and his mother < quite a lady, m spite of her poor, • j F» 
walked together in the wintry sunset under the < fore and frock. . , 

leafless beeches at Dangerfieid, and talked of the < 'Does she wear shabby frocks ^ saw in n - 
dreary voyage that lay before the lad, the arid Uher. 'I could help her in that mat wr, at .0 
plains and cruel jungles far away; oerils by sea events, INed. I might send her a gr «at -trunk ft] 
and perils by (and; but across them ali, Fame j of Letitia's things She outgrows them long be. 
waving her white arms, beckoning to the young ( fore they are shabby . 
soldier, and crying, 'Come, conqueror that shall The boy co ored and shook his head, 
be ! come, through trial and danger, through fever j 'It's very kind of you to th nk : of it, mother 
and famine-come to your rest upon my blood- j dear; but I don't think that would quite answer/ 
stained lap!' Surely this boy, being only just j he said. ^ 
eighteen years oi ag>j, -may be i-orgiven if he is a ; 'Why not; 

little romantic, a little ovei-easer and impression- ; ' Because, you see, John Marchmont is a gen- 
able, a little too confident that the next thing to j tleroan; and, you know, though he s so dread- 
going out to India as a sea-sick subaltern in a i fully poor now. he is heir to Marchmont Towers, 
great transport ship, is coming home with the ' And though he didn t mind doing any thing in 
reputation of a Clive. Perhaps he may be for- ' the world to earn a few shillings a week, he 
given, too, if, in his fresh enthusiasm, he some- ; mightn't like to take cast-oft clothes.' 
times forgot the shabby friend whom he had helped i So nothing more was to be said or done upon 
little better than a twelvemonth before, and the j the subject. 

earnest hazel eyes that had shone upon him in the Edward Arundel wrote -his humble friend a 
pitiful Oakley Street chamber. I do not say that j pleasant letter, in which he told John thathe 
lie was utterly unmindful of his old teacher of < had enlisted his mother's sympathy in Mary'i 
mathematics. It was not in his nature to forget ', cause, and in which he spoke in very glowing 
•any one who had need cf his services;' for this j terms of the Indian expedition that lay before 
boy, so eager to be a soldier, was of the chivai- ; him. 

rous temperament, and would have gone out to ; 'Iwishlcould come to say good-bye to yen] 
die for his mistress, or his friend, if need had ] and Miss Mary before I go,' he wrote; but that's 
been. He had received two or three grateful let- j impossible. 1 go straight from here to South- 
ters from John Marchmont, in each of which the j ampton by coach at the end of this month, and 
lawyer's clerk spoke pleasantly of his new life, j the Auckland sails on the 2d of February. Tell 
and hopefully of bis health, which had improved j Miss Mary I shall bring her homeall kinds of 
considerably, he said, since his resignation of the I pretty presents from Afghanistan — ivory fans, anil 
tragic banner and the pantomimic mask. Neither i Cashmere shawls, and Chinese puzzles, and em- 
had Edward quite forgotten his promise of en- < broidered slippers with turned-up toes, and dia- 
listing Mrs. Arundel's sympathies in aid of the \ monds, and atter of roses, and such like; andre 
motherless little girl. In one of these wintry j member that I expect you to write tome, andto 
walks beneath the black branches at Dangerfieid, • give me the earliest news of your coming into 
the lad had told the sorrowful story of his well- .; the Lincolnshire property.' 
born tutor's poverty and humiliation. < John Marchmont received this letter in til 

'Only think, mother!' he cried, at the end of j middle of January. He gave a despondent sigl 
the little history, 'i saw the poor fellow carry- j as he refolded the boyish epistle after reading il 
ing a great calico flag, and marching about at the .; to his little girl. 

heel of a procession, to be laughed at by the cos- ; 'We haven't so many friends, Polly,' he~saidi 
termongers in the gallery; and 1 know that he is ; 'that we should be indifferent to the loss of this 
descended from" a capital Lincolnshire family, one.' 

and will come in for no end of money if he only ; Mary Marchmont's cheek grew paler athel 
lives long enough. But if he should die, mother, father's sorrowful speech. That imaginative ten- 
and leave his little girl destitute, you'll look after ■ perament, which was, as I have said, almost mot- 
her, won't you?' • bid in its intensity, presented every object f o the 
I don't know whether Mrs. Arundel quite en- ; little girl in a light in which things are lookedil 
teredinto her soft's ideas upon the subject of by very few children:' Only these few wo* 
adopting Mary Marchmont, or whether she had j and her fancy roamed far away to that cruel lam' 
any definite notion of bringing the little : gir home , whose perils her father had described to her. 
to Dangerfieid for the natural term of her life in ; Only these few words, and she was away in til 
the event of the child being lei an orphan But j rocky Bolan Pass, under hurricanes of drift* 
SB e yvas a kind and charitable lady and she ; snow; she saw the hungry soldiers fighting J 
scarcely cared to damp her boy s sp.nts by hold- savage dogs for the possession of foul carrta 
ing forth upon the doubtful wisdom of his adopt- She had heard all the perils and difficulties whict 
i„|, or promising to adopt, any stray orphans j had befallen the Arm/ of tte InTs TtKal 
who might cross his patnwaj . ,39 aiM j tne woman j y h „ _ t fc . A m 

•I hope the little girl may not lose her father, ; cruel memories J 

Edward,' she said, gently. 'Besides, dear, you < «He will go to India and be killed Dana dear, 
say that Mr. Marchmont tells you he has humble ; she said. 'Oh, why, why doC'lKlS 
friends, who would take the child if any thing His mother can't loU hi£, canshe > She wolS 
happened to him. He does not wish us to adopt ; never let him go if she <& > Can sne ' bhe W0M 
the little girl; he only asks us to interest our- > John Marchmont w as o bli <, g 

selves in her fate.' , ,. daughter that motherly i OVe ^ J° 'explain 10 w 

« And TOT will do that, mother darling r> cried to dlprive a nation of its deS 1 *> t go so far J 
thetoy. *You will take an interest in her, won't Uichest jewels which Co^,?*^; "ritiutOj 



country are those ruby life-drops which flow from > brandy-bottle and the dice-box; and, haying done 
'the hearts of her bravest and brightest sons, f this, believed that he had performed his duty as 
Mary was a poor political economist; she could \ an Englishman and a father. 
! ,aot reason upon the necessity of chastising Per-) If Mrs. Arundel wept she wept m secret, loth 
iian insolence, or checking Russian encroach-Ho discourage her son by the sight of those natu- 
h ments upon the far-away shores of the Indus. Jral, womanly tears. If Miss Letitia Arundel 
Was Edward Arundel's bright head, with its was sorry to lose her brother she mourned with 
>ureola of yellow hair, to be cloven asunder by > most praiseworthy discretion, and did not lorget 
,'ih Afghan renegade's sabre, because the young ' to remind the young traveler that she expected to 
Shah of Persia had been contumacious ? '/ receive a muslin frock embroidered with beetle- 

Mary Marchmont'wept silently that day over a ' wings by an early mail. And as Algernon Fair- 
hree-volume novel, while her father was away [ fax Danger-field Arundel, the heir, was away at 
srving writs upon wretched insolvents, in his ca- \ college, there was no one else to mourn. So Ed- 
acity of outdoor clerk to Messrs. Paulette, Pau- > ward left the house of his forefathers by a branch 
itte, and Mathewson. ; coach, which started from the 'Arundel Arms' in 

,The young lady no longer spent her quiet days • time to meet the 'Telegraph' at Exeter; and no 
ithe two-pair back. Mr. Marchmont and his : : noisy lamentations shook the sky above Danger- 
aughter had remained faithful to Oakley Street, - field Park, no mourning voices echoed through 
nd the proprietress of the ladies' wardrobe, who the spacious rooms. The old servants were 
r as a good, motherly creature; but they had de-, sorry to lose the younger-born, whose easy, ge- 
;ended to the grandeur of the first floor, whose nial temperament had made him an especial fa- 
orgeous decorations Mary had glanced at fur- :< vorite; but there was a certain admixture of jo- 
vely in the days gone by, when the splendid > viality with their sorrow, as there generally, is 
hambers were occupied by an elderly and repro-' with all mourning in the basement; and the strong 
ate commission agent, who seemed utterly indif- ale, the famous Dangerfieid October, went faster 
;rent to the delights of a convex mirror, sup- : upon that 31st of January than upon any day 
orted by a gilded but crippled eagle, whose dig-/ since Christmas 

ity was somewhat impaired by the loss of a / 1 doubt if. any one at Dangerfieid Park sor- 
ing; but which bijou appeared to Mary to be a ; rowed as bitterly for the departure of the bi yish 
tting adornment for the young Queen's palace in , soldier as a romantic young lady of nine years 
t. James's Park. ;old, in Oakley street, Lambeth, whose one seriti- 

But neither the eagle nor the third volume of a ; mental day-dream, half childish, half womanly, 
rilling romance could comfort Mary upon 1-liis j owned Edward Arundel as its centre figure. 
eak January day. She shut her book, and^ stood So the curtain falls on the picture of a brave 
'■' the window, looking out into the dreary street, ship sailing eastward, her white canvas strained 
;at seemed so blotted and dim under the falling \ against the cold gray February sky. and a little 
;'.ow. _ \ girl weeping over the tatteied pages of a stupid 

.'It snowed in the Pass of Bolan,' she thought;^ novel in a shabby London lodging. 
.id the treacherous Indians harassed the brave ■ 
feldiers, and killed their camels. What will be- 
ime of him in that dreadful country? Shall 
:p ever see him again ?' 
Yes, Mary, to your sorrow. Indian cimeters 
•'til let him go scathless, famine and fever will 
sshimby; but the hand which points to that 
(■-away day on which you and he are to meet 
II never fail or falter in its purpose until that 
• comes. 



Ve have no need to dwell upon the prepara 
is which were made for the young soldier's de 

There is a lapse of three years and a half be- 
tween the acts; and the curtain rises to reveal a 
'( widely-different picture: the picture of a noble 
'/ mansion. in the flat Lincolnshire country; a stately 
. '/ pile of building, standing proudly fonh against 
lure from home, nor on the tender farewells ', a back-ground of black woodland; a noble build- 
ween the mother and son. j ing, supported upon either side by an octagon 
At. Arundel was a country gentleman pvr et', tower, whose solid masonry is ha"lf hidden by 
fle; a hearty-, broad-shouldered squire, who J the ivy which clings about the stone-work, irail- 
1 no thought above his farm and his dog-kennel, ', ing he're and there, arid flapping restlessly with 
the hunting of the red deer, with which his > every breath of wind against the narrow case- 
ghborhood abounded. He sent his younger son < merits. 

India as coolly as he had sent the elder to Ox- \ A broad stone terrace stretches the entire length 
d. The boy had little to inherit, and must be '. of the grim facade, from tower to tower,' and 
ivided for in a gentlemanly manner. Other/, three flights of steps lead from the terrace to the 
jnger sons of the house of Arundel had fought , broad lawn, which loses itself in a vast grassy 
1 conquered in the Honorable East India Corn-) fiat, only broken by a few clumps >of trees and a. 
ly's service; and was Edward any better than < dismal pool of black water, but called by cour- 
;m, that there should be sentimental whining^ tesy a park. Grim stone firiffins surmount the 
;ause the lad was going away to fight his way < terrace steps, and griffins' heads and other ar- 
fortune, if he could? He even went further <■ chitectural monstrosities, worn and moss-grown 
in this, and declared that Master Edward was ', keep watch and ward over every door and win- 
jucky dog to be going out at such a time, when jdow. every archway and abutment, frowning 
sre was plenty of fighting, and a very fair } threat and defiance upon the daring visitor who 
ance of speedy promotion for a good soldier. '. approaches the great house by this, the formidable 
He gave the young cadet his blessing, reminded ] chief entrance. 

'fl of the limit of such supplies as he was to ex- s The mansion looks westward; but there is 
et from home, bade him keep clear of the t another approach, a low archway on the southern 



But as this story was not par- 
• none ot the 

side, which leads into a quadrangle, where there f summer twilight. 

te a quaint little door under a stone portico* ivy- ! ticularly romantic, and possessed none ol lilt 
covered like the rest— a comfortable little door of \ elements likely to insure popularity, such as love, 
massive oak, studded with knobs of rusty iron— a - jealousy, revenge, mystery, youth, and beauty, 
door generally affected by visitors familiar with 'U had never been very widely disseminated, 
the house. : : t shou , d think that the new owner of March- 

Thss is Marchmont Towers— a grand and stately 'i mont Towers— new within the last six montns- 
mansion, which had been a monastery in the days i was about the last person in Christendom to be 
when England and the Pope were friends and al- ) hypercritical, or to raise fanciful objections to 
lies; and which bad been bestowed upon Hugh i his dwelling; for inasmuch as he had come 
Marchmont, gentleman, by his Sovereign Lord ; straight from a wretched transpontine lodging to 
and most Christian Majesty the King, Henry VJI1, : this splendid Lincolnshire mansion, and had at 
of blessed memory, and by that gentleman com- ; the same time exchanged a stipend of thirty shil- 
moner extended and improved at considerable ') lings a week for ah income of eleven thousand a 
outlay. This is Marchmont Towers— a splendid \ year, derivable from lands that spread far away 
and a princely habitation, truly; but perhaps [ over fenny flats and low-lying farms, to the soli-- 
scarcely the kind of dwelling one would choose, ; tary sea-shore, he had ample reason to be grate- 
out of every other resting-place upon earth, for ! ful to Providence, and well pleased with his new 
the holy resting-place we'ctill home. The great i abode. 

mansion is a little too dismal in its lonely gran- \ Yes: Philip Marchmont, the childless widower, 
deur; it lacks shelter when the dreary winds come j had died six months before, at the close of the 
sweeping across the grassy flats in the bleak winter \ year '43, of a broken heart, his old servants said 
weather; it lacks shade when the western sun — broken by the loss of his only and idolized son; 
blazes on every window-pane in the stifling sum- j after which loss he had never been known to 
rner evening, "it is at all times rather too stony j smile. He was one of those undemonstrative, 
in its aspect, and is apt to remind one, aimosi men, who can take a great sorrow quietly, and 
painfully, of every weird and sorrowful story J only— die of it. Philip Marchmont lay in a vel- 
treasured in the storehouse of memory. Ancient ! vet-covered coffin, above his son's, in a stone re- 
tales of enchantment, dark German legends, wild ( cess set apart for them in the Marchmont vault 
Scottish fancies, grim fragments of half-forgotten i beneath Kemberling Church, three miles from 
demonology, strange stories of murder, violence, \ the Towers; and John reigned in his stead. John 
mystery, and wrong, vaguely intermingle in the j Marchmont, the supernumerary, the patient, con- 
stranger's mind, as he looks, for the. first time, at scientious copying and outdoor clerk of Lincoln's 
Marchmont Towers. Inn, vjjas now sole owner of the Lincolnshire es 

But of course these feelings wear off in time, tate, sole master of a household of well-trainee 
So invincible is the power of custom, that we ! old servants, sole proprietor of a very decen' 
might make ourselves comfortable in the Castle ) country gentleman's stud, and of chariots, ba 
of Otranto after a reasonable sojourn within its >, rouches, chaises, phaetons, and other vehicies- 
mysterious walls. Familiarity would breed con- j a little old-fashioned and out of date, it may be 
tempt for the giant helmet, and all the other grim but very comfortable to a man for whom an om 
apparitions of the haunted dwelling. The com- ( nibus ride had long been a treat and a rarity .— 
rnonplaee and ignoble wants of everyday life \ Nothing had been touched or disturbed sine 
must surely bring disenchantment with them, j Philip Marchmont's death. The rooms he ha< 
The ghost and the butcher's boy cannot well exist i used were still the occupied apartments; th 
conternooraneously; and the avenging shade can / chambers he had chosen to shut up were still kep 
scarcely continue to lurk beneath the portal which } with locked doors; the servants who had serve 

' ''-■' "~ : " 1-J--J n j m wa ited upon his successor, whom they de 

clared to be a quiet, easy gentleman, far too wis 
to interfere with old servants, every one of whot 
knew the ways of the house a great deal bette 
than he did,;though he-was the master of it. 

There was therefore no shadow of change ii 
the stately mansion. The dinner-bell still ranga 

al milkman. Indeed, 

is visited by the matutinal 

this is doubtless the reason that the most restless .; 

and impatient spirit, bent on early vengeance; 

and immediate retribution, will yet wait until the ; 

shades of night have fallen before he reveals j 

himself, rather than run the risk of an ignomin- , 

ious encounter with the postman or the parlor-} 

maid. Be it how it might, the phantoms of } the same hour; the same trades-people left th< 

Marchmont Towers were not intrusive. They ' same species of wares at the low oaken door; th( 

may have perambulated the Jong tapestried cor- • old housekeeper, arranging her simple menu 

ridors the tenantless chambers, the broad black > planned her narrow -round of soups and roasts, 

staircase of shining oak; al) -the dead and gone sweets and made dishes, exactly as she had been 

beauties and soldiers, and lawyers, and parsons, wont to do, and had no new tastes to consult. A 

■ind simple country' squires of the Marchmont gray-haired bachelor, who had been_own man to 

race may have descended from their picture- 
frames to hold a witches* sabbath m the old 
house; but as the Lincolnshire servants were 
hearty eaters and heavy sleepers, the ghosts had 
it all to themselves. I believe there was one 

Philip, was now own man to Jo^n. The carriage 
which had conveyed the late lord every Sunday 
to morning and afternoon service at Kemberling 
conveyed the new lord, who sat in the same seat 

that his predecessor had occupied in the great 

dismal 'stort attached to the house — the story of family-pew, and read his prayers out of the same 
a Marchmont of the time of Charles L, who had book — a noble, crimson morocco-covered volume, 
murdered his coachman in a fit of insensate in which George, our most gracious King and 
race- and it was even asserted, upon the au- Governor, and all manner of dead and gone prin- 
tWi'tv of an old housekeeper, that John March- ces and princesses were prayed for. 

. ' n-randmother, when a young woman and The presence of Mary Marchmont made the 
iTlv come aT a br de to the Towers, had be- J only change in the old house; a „ d even ft t 
held the murdered coachman stalk into her ! change was » vf^"^^- Mary a „d her 
chamber ghastly and blood-bedabbled, In the dim * father were a, clo.ely un.ted at Marchmont Tow- 



ers as they had been in Oakley Street. The little 
girl clung to her father as tenderly as ever — more 
tenderly than ever, perhaps; for she knew some- 
thing of that which the physicians had said, and 
she knew that John Marchmont's lease of life was 
not a lon|; one. Perhaps it would be belter to 
say that he had no lease at all. His soul was a 
tenant on sufferance in its frail earthly habitation, 
receiving a respite now and again, when the 
flicker of the lamp was very low, every chance 
breath of wind threatening to extinguish it for- 
ever. It was only those who knew John March- 
mont very intimately who were fully acquainted 
with the extent of his danger. He no longer bore 
any of those fatal outward signs of consumption, 
which fatigue and deprivation had once made 
painfully conspicuous. The hectic flush and the 
unnatural brightness of the eyes had subsided; 
indeed, Johu seemed'much stronger and heartier 
than of old; and it is only great medical prac- 
titioners who can tell to a nicety what is going 
on inside a man, when he presents a very fair ex- 
terior to the unprofessional eye. But John was 
decidedly better than he had been. He might live 
three years, five, seven, possibly even ten years; 
but he must live the life of a man who holds him- 
self perpetually upon his defence against death; 
and he must recognize in every bleak current of 
wind, in every chilling damp, orper^ous heat, or 
over-exertion, or ill-chosen morsel of food, or 
hasty emotion, or sudden passion, an insidious at- 
tack upon the part of his dismal enemy. 

Mary Marchmont knew all this — or divined it, 
perhaps, rather than knew it, with the child-wo- 
man's subtle power of divination, which is even 
stronger than the actual woman's; for her father 
had done his best to keep all sorrowful knowledge 
from her. She knew that he was in danger; and 
she loved him all the more dearly as the one pre- 
cious thing which was in constant peril of being 
snatched away. The child's love for her father 
has not grown any less morbid in its intensity since 
Edward Arundel's departure for India; nor has 
Mary become more childlike since her coming to 
Marchmont Towers, and her abandonment of all 
those sordid cares, those pitiful every day duties, 
which' had made her womanly. 

it may be that the last lingering glamour of 
childhood had forever faded away with the reali- 
zation of the day-dream which she had carried 
about with her so often in the ding.y transpontine 
thoroughfares around Oakley Street. Marchmont 
Towers, that fairy palace, whose lighted windows 
had shone upon her far away across a cruel forest 
of poverty and trouble, like theenchanted castle 
which appears to the lost wanderer of the child's 
story, was now the home of the father she loved. 
The grim enchanter, Death, the only magician of 
our modern histories, had waved his skeleton 
hand, more powerful than the star-gemmed wand 
of any fairy godmother, and the obstacles which* 
had stood between John Marchmont and his in- 
heritance had one by one been swept away. * 

But was Marchmont Towers quite as beautiful 
as that fairy palace of Mary's day-dream ? No, 
not quite; not quite. The rooms were handsome 
— handsomer and larger, even, than the rooms she 
had dreamed of; but perhaps none the better for 
that. They were grand and gloomy and magnifi- 
cent; but they were not the sunlit chambers 
which her fancy had built up, and decorated with 
such shreds and patches of splendor as her narrow 
experience enabled her to devise. Perhaps it 
was rather a disappointment to Miss Marchmont 

! to discover that the mansion was completely fur- 
■ nished, and that there was no room for any of 
: those splendors which she had so often contem- 
: plated in the New Cut. The parrot at the green- 
: grocer's was a vulgar bird, and not by any means 
: admirable in Lincolnshire. The carrying away 
and providing for her favorite tradespeople was 
not practicable; and John Marchmont had de- 
murred to her proposal of adopting the butcher s 
i daughter. 

There is always something to be given up even 

when our brightest visions are. realized; there is 

; always some one figure, a low one, perhaps, 

: missing in the fullest sum of earthly happiness. 

: 1 dare say, if Alnaschar had married the Vizier s 

: daughter, he would have found her a shrew, and 

' would have looked hadk yearningly to the humble 

days in which he had Seen an itinerant vendor of 

crockery-ware. , 

If, therefore, Mary Marchmont found her sun- 
lit fancies not quite realized by the great stony 
mansion that frowned upon the fenny country- 
side, the wide gra'ssy plat, the black pool, with 
its dismal shelter of weird pollard-willows, whose 
ugly shadows, distorted on the bosom of the quiet 
water, looked 1 like the shadows of hump-backed 
men — if these things did not compose as beautiful 
a picture as that which the little girl had carried 
so long in her mind, she had no more reason to be 
sorry than the rest of Us, and had been no more 
foolish than other: dreamers. Well, the dream 
was over, and she was quite a woman now; a 
woman, very grateful to Providence when she re- 
■membered that her father had no longer need to 
toil for his daily bread, and that he was luxuri- 
ously lodged, and could have the first physicians 
in the land at his beck and call. 

'Oh, papa, it is so nice rich !' the young; 
lady would exclaim now and then, in a fleeting 
transport of enthusiasm. 'How good we ought 
to be to the poor people, when we remember how 
poor we once v.'ere!' * 

And the little girl did not forget to be good to 
the poor about Kemberling and Marchmont Tow- 
ers. There were plenty of poor, of course; free 
and easy pensioners, who came to the Towers for 
brandy, and wine,- and milk, and woolen' stuffs, 
and grocery, precisely as they would have gone to 
a shop, except that there was to be no bill. The 
housekeeper doled out her bounties with many, 
short homilies upon the depravity and ingratitude 
of the recipients, and gave tracts of an awful and 
denunciatory nature to the pitiful petitioners. — 
Tracts interrogatory, and tracts fiercely impera- 
tive; tracts that asked, Where are yougoing ? Why 
are you wicked 7 Will you repent ? What will become 
nf you ? and other tracts, which cried, Stop, and 
iliink ! Pause, while there is time ! Sinner, consider .' 
Efd-doer, beware ! Perhaps t may not be the wisest 
possible plan to begin the work of reformation by 
frightening, threatening, and otherwise disheart- 
ening the wretched sinner to be reformed. There 
is a certain sermon in the New Testament con- 
taining sacred and comforting words, which were 
spoken upon a mountain near at hand to Jerusa- 
lem, and spoken to an audi'ory among which 
there must have been many sinful creatures; but 
there is more of blessing than cursing in thatsub- 
lime discourse, and it might be rather a tender 
father pleading gently with his wayward children 
than an offended Deity dealing out denunciation 
upon a stubborn and refractory race. But the 
authors of the tracts may have never read this 
; «ermon, perhaps, and they may take their ideas 



o.f composition from that comforting service which t 
we read on Ash Wednesday, cowering in fear, i 
and trembling in our pews, and calling down< 
curses upon ourselves and our neighbors. Beit as it/ 
might, the tracts were not popular among the pen- \ 
sioners of Marchmont Towers. They infinitely? 
preferred to hear Mary read a chapter in the New '/ 
Testa'ment, or some pretty patriarchal story of/ 
primitive obedience and faith. The little girl/ 
would discourse upon the Scripture histories in / 
her simple, old-fashioned manner; and many a/ 
stout Lincolnshire farm laborer was content to sit / 
over his hearth, with a pipe of shag-tobacco and 'l 
a mug of fettled beer, while Miss Marchmont \ 
read and expounded the history of Abraham and / 
Isaac, or Joseph and his brethren. / 

'It'sjoost loike a story-book to hear her,' the i 
man would say to his wife; 'and yet she brings it/ 
all hoame, too, loike. If she reads about Abra- > 
ham, she'll ■say, maybe, "That's joost howyou^ 
gave your only son to be a soldier, you know, ', 
Muster Moogins" — she alius says Muster Moogins < 
— "you gave un into God's hands, and you troosted '/ 
God would take care of un; and whatever cam "/ 
to un would be the best, even if it was death. "J 
That's what she'll say, bless her little heart ! so '/ 
gentle and tender loike. The worst o' chaps £ 
couldn't but listen to her. ' i 

Mary Marchmont's morbidjy sensitive nature < 
adapted. her to all charitable offices. No chance '/ 
word in her simple talk ever inflicted a wound / 
upon the listener. She had a subtle and intuitive i 
comprehension of other people's feelings, derived^ 
from the extreme susceptibility of her own. She j 
had never been vulgarized by the associations of/ 
poverty; for her self-contained nature took no t 
color from the things that surrounded her, and she r 
was only at Marchmont Towers that which she i 
had been from the age of six — a little lady, grave i 
and gentle, dignified, discreet, and wise. i 

There was one bright figure missing out of the pic- > 
ture which she had been wont of late years to make > 
of the Lincolnshire mansion, and that was the fig- 1 
lire of the yellow-haired h»y who had breakfasted i 
upon haddocks and hot rolls in Oakley Street. She < 
had imagined Edward Arundel an inhabitant of ( 
that fair Utopia. He would live with them; or, if I 
he could not live with them, he would be with them ' 
as a visitor — often — almost always. He would \ 
leave off being a soldier, for, of course, her papa ' 
could give him more money than he could get by i 
being a soldier — (you see that Mary's experience' 
of poverty had taught her to take a mereantUe l 
and sordid view of military life) — and he would i 
come to Marchmbnt Towers', and ride, and drive, i 
and play tennis — what- was tennis ? she wondered < 
— and read three-volume novels all day long. But < 
that part of the dream "was at Jeast broken. — / 
Marchmont Towers was Mary's home, but the ' 
young soldier was far away; in the Pass of Bolan 
perhaps — Mary had a picture of that cruel rocky 
pass almost always in her mind — or cutting his 
way through a black jungle, with the yellow eyes 
of hungry tigers glaring out at him through the 
loathsome tropical foliage; or dying of thirst and 
fever under a scorching sun, with no better pillow 
than the neck of a dead camel, with no more ten- 
der watcher than the impatient vulture flapping 
her wings above his head, and waiting till he too 
should be carrion. What was the good of wealth, 
if it could not bring this young soldier home to a 
safe shelter in his native land? John Marchmont 
Smiled, wben his daughter asked this question, and 

implored her father to write to Edward Arundel, 
recalling him to England. , 

'God knows how glad I should be to have the 
boy here, Polly,' John said, as he drew his little 
girl closer to his breast-she sat on his k^e still, 
though she was thirteen years of age— hut Ed- 
ward has a career before him, my dear, and could 
not give it up for an inglorious life in this ram- 
bling old house. It isn't as if I could hold out any 
inducement to him, you know, Polly. 1 can t; 
fori mustn't leave any money away trom my 
little girl.' 

'But he might have half my money, papa, or 
all of it,' Mary added, piteously. 'What could 
I do with money if — ' 

She didn't finish the sentence; she never could 
complete any-such sentence as this; but her father' 
knew what she meant. 

So six months had passed since a dreary Jan- 
uary day upon which John Marchmont had read 
in the second column of the Times that he could 
hear of something greatly to his advantage by 
applying to a certain solicitor, whose offices were 
next door but one to those of Messrs. Paulette, 
Paulette, and Mathewson's. His heart began to 
beat very violently when he read that advertise- 
ment in the supplement which it was one of his 
duties to airJ)efore the fire in the clerks' office; 
but he showed no other sign of emotion. He 
waited until he took the papers to his employer; 
and as he laid them at Mr. Mathewson's elbow, 
murmured a respectful request to be allowed to 
go out for half an hour upon his own business. 

'Good gracious me, Marchmont!' cried the 
lawyer; 'what can you want to go out for at this" 
time in the morning? You've only just come; and 
there's that agreement between Higgs and Sandy- 
man must be copied before — ' * 

'Yes, 1 know, Sir; I'll be back in time to at- 
tend to it; but I — 1 think I've come into a for- 
tune, Sir; and I should like to go and see about 

The solicitor turned in his revolving library- 
chair and looked aghast at his clerk. Had this 
Marchmont — always rather unnaturally reserved 
and eccentric — gone suddenly mad? No; the 
copying-clerk stood by his side, grave, self-pos- 
sessed as ever, with his forefinger upon the ad- 

'Marchmont — John — call — Messrs. Tindal and 
Trollam— ' gasped Mr. Mathewson. ! Do you 
mean, to toll me it's you ?' 

'Yes, Sir.' 

'Egad, I'll go with you !' cried the solicitor, 
hooking his arm through that of his clerk, snatch- 
ing his hat from an adjacent stand, and dashing 
through the outer office, down the great stair- 
case, and into the next door but one, before John 
Marchmont knew where he was. 

John had not deceived, h'is employer. March- 
mont Towers was his, with all its appurtenances. 
Messrs. Paulette, Paulette, and Mathewson took 
him in hand, much to the chagrin of Messrs. Tin- 
dal and Trollarn, and proved his identity in less 
than a week. On a shelf above the high wooden 
desk at which John had sat, copying law-papers, 
with a weary hand and an aching spine, appeared 
two bran-new deed-boxes, inscribed, in while 
letters, with the name and address of John 
Marchmont, Esq., Marchmont Towers. TJi e ' 
copying-clerk's sudden accession to fortune was 
the talk of all the employes in 'the Fields. ' M a Zh 
mont Towers was exaggerated into all Li nC oj£ 


shire and a tidy slice of Yorkshire. Eleven thou- i woman, who made a morning call every Monday 
sand, a year was expanded into an annual million, with John Marchmont's shabby shirts. The shirts 
Every body expected largesse from the legatee. — were not shabby now; and it was no longer Mary's 
How fond people had* been of the quiet clerk, and duty to watch them day by day, and manipulate 
how magnanimo%sly they had>concealed their sen- them tenderly when the linen grew frayed at the 
tim,ents during his poverty, lest they should wound sharp edges of the folds, or the button-holes gave 
him, as they urged, 'which' they knew he was signs of weakness. Corson, Mr. Marchtiiont's 
sensitive; and how expansively they now dilated own man, had care of the shirts now; and John 
on their long-suppressed emotions! Of course, wore diamond studs and a black satin waistcoat 
under these circumstances, it is hardly likely that when he gave a dinner-party. They were not 
every body could be satisfied; so,it is a small thing very lively, those Lincolnshire dinner-parties; 
to say that the dinner which John gave— by his though the dessert was a sight to look upon, in 
late employers' suggestion (he was about the last Mary's eyes. The long, shining table, the red 
man to think of giving a dinner)— at the 'Albion and gold and purple and green Indian china, the 
Tavern,' to the legal staff of Messrs. Paulette, i fluffy woolen d'oyleys, the sparkling cut-glass, the 
Paulette, and Mathewson, and such acquaintance /sticky preserved ginger and guava-jelly, and dried 
of the legal profession as they should choose to /orange rings and chips, and all the stereotyped 
invite, was a failure; and that gentlemen who /sweetmeats, were very grand and beautiful, no 
were pretty well used to dine upon liver and ba- / doubt; but ^Iary had seen livelier desserts in Oak- 
con, or. beef-steak and onions, or the joint, vege- 'ley Street, though there had been nothing better 
tables, bread, cheese, and celery for a shilling, ' than a brown-paper bag of oranges from the 
turned up their noses at the turbot, murmured at /Westminster Road, and a bottle of two-and-two- 
the paucity of green fat in the soup, made light /penny Marsala'from a licensed victualer's in the 
of red muilet and ortolans, objected to the flavor /Borough, to promote conviviality. 
of the truffles, and were contemptuous about the '; 
wines. ; 

John knew nothing of this. He had lived a ~ ' * B "*" 

separate and secluded existence; and his only ; 

thought now was of getting, away to Marchmont ' CHAPTER \I. 

Towers, which had been familiar to him in his / TOE Y0TJNG S0LDIER ' S RKTUS . N . 

boyhood, when he had been wont to go there on ■■ 

occasional visits to his grandfather. He wanted / The rain beats down upon the battlemented 
to get away from the turmoil and confusion of the t roof of Marchmont Towers this July day as if it 
big, heartless city, in which he had endured so /had a mind to flood the old mansion. • The flat 
much; he wanted to carry away his little girl to / waste of grass, and the lonely clumps of trees,. 
a quiet country home, and live and die there in / are almost blotted out by the falling rain. The 
peace. He liberally rewarded all the good people / low gray sky shuts out the distance. This part of 
about Oakley Street who had been kind to little Lincolnshire— fenny, misty, and flat always— 
Mary; and there was weeping and regret in the / seems flatter and mistier than usual to-day. The 
regions of the Ladies' Wardrobe when Mr. March- / rain beats hopelessly upon the leaves in tne wood 
mont and his daughter went away one bitter win- /behind Marchmont Towers, and splashes into 
ter's morning, in a cab which was to carry them great pools beneath the trees, until the ground is 
to the hostelry whence the coach started for Lin- / almost hidden by the falling water,' and the trees 
co ] n _ ', seem to be growing out of a black lake. The land 

It is strange to think how far those Oakley j is lower behind Marchmont Towers, and slopes 
Street days of privation and endurance seem to / down gradually to the bank of a dismal river, 
have receded in the memories of both father and ' which straggles through the Marchmont property 
daughter. The impalpable past fades awaj,, and / at a snail's pace, to gain an impetus farther on, 
it is difficult for John and hiS little girl to believe '/ until it hurries info, the sea somewhere northward 
that they were once so poor and desolate. It is > of Grimsby. The wood is not held in any great 
Oakley Street now that is visionary and unreal. Kavor by the household at the Towers; and it has 
The stately county families bear down upon / been a pet project of several Marchmonts to level 
Marchmont Towers in great lumbering chariots, / and drain it, but a project not very easily to be 
with brazen crests upon the hammer-cloths, and {carried out. Marchmont Towers is said to beun- 
sulky coachmen in 'Crown-George wigs. The 'healthy, as a dwelling-house, by reason of this 
county mammas patronize and caress Miss March- '/ wood, from which miasmas rise in certain states 
mont— what a match she will be for one of the / of the weather; and it is on this account that the 
county sons by-and-by ! — the county daughters dis- ' back of the house — the eastern front, at least, as 
course with-Mary about her poor, and^ier fancy- /it is called, looking to the wood— is very little 
work, and her piano. She is getting on slowly / used. ■> 

enough with her piano, poor little girl, under the ' Mary Marchmont sits at a window in the west- 
tuition of the organist of S warn pin gton, who gives / ern drawing-room, watching the ceaseless falling 
lessons to that part of the county. And there are { o€ the rain upon this dreary summer afternoon, 
solemn dinners now and then at Marchmont Tow- J She is little changed since the day upon which 
ers; dinners at which Miss Mary appears when J Edward Arundel saw her in Oakley Street. She 
the cloth has been removed, and reflects in silent f is taller, of course; but her figure is as slender 
wonder upon the change that has come to her \ and childish as ever; it is only her face in which 
father and herself. Can it be true that she has / the earnestness of premature womanhood reveals 
ever lived in Oakley Street ? whither came no ', itself, in a grave and sweet serenity very bqauti- 
more aristocratic visitors than her Aunt Sophia, /ful to contemplate. Her soft brown eyes have a 
who was the wife of a Berkshire farmer.and always pensive shadow in their gentle light; her mouth 
brought hogs-puddings, and butter, and home- > is even more pensive. 'It has been said of Jane, 
made bread, and other rustic delicacies to her / Grey, of Mary Stuart, of Marie Antoinette, Char 
brother-in-law; or Mrs. Brigsome, the washer- ,4QUe Corday, and, other, fated women, that in tho 


gayest hours of their youth they bore upon some j years before in the two-pair back in ™ e J 
feature or in some expression, the shadow of the Street, was almost too much for her to Dear wun- 
End; an impalpable, indescribable presage of an ! out the relief of tears. But she controlled ner 
awful future, vaguely felt by those who looked j emotion as bravely as if she had,been a woman 
upon them. J of twenty. • ti ■ j 

Jsit thus with Mary Marchmont? Has the I 4 am so glad to see you,' she said, quietly; §nd 
solemn hand of Destiny set that shadowy brand J papa will be so glad too. It is the only uung we 
upon tbefaceof this child, that even in her pros- i want, now we are rich, to have you witnus. We 
perity, as in her adversity, she should be so utterly ) have talked of you so often; and 1— we— Have 
different from all other children ? Is she already ; been so unhappy sometimes, thinking that- 
marked out for some womanly martyrdom;! 'That I should be killed, I suppose? 
already set apart for more than common suffering ? n 'Yes; or wounded very, very badly. Ihe bat- 
She sits alone this afternoon, for her father is < ties in India have been dreadful, have they notr 
busy with his agent. Wealth does not mean im- \ Mr. Arundel smiled at her earnestness. ^ 
munity from all care and trouble; and Mr. March-! 'They have not been exactly child s play, he 
mont has plenty of work to ^et through, in con- j said, shaking back his auburn hair and smoothing 
junction with his land-steward, a hard-headed his thick mustache. He was a man now, and a 
Yorkshireman, who lives at Kemberling, and in- very handsome one; something of that type which 
sists on doing his duty with pertinacious honesty, is known in this year of grace as 'swell; but 

The large brown eyes looked wistfully out at \ brave and chivalrous withal, and not afflicted with 
the dismal waste and the falling rain. There was \ any impediment in his speech. 'The men who 
a wretched equestrian making his way along the \ talk of the Afghans as a chicken-hearted set of 
carriage-drive. ) fellows are rather out of their reckoning. The 

'Who can come to see us on such aday ?' Mary ' Indians can fight, Miss Mary, and fight like the 
thought. 'It must be Mr. Gormby, I suppose' — > devil; but we can lick 'em.' 

the agent's name was Gormby — 'Mr. Uormby j He walked over to the fire-place, where there 
never cares about the wet; but then I thought he / was afire burning upon this chilly wet day; and 
was with papa. Oh, I hope it isn't any body J began to shake himself dry. Mary, following 
coming to call.' \ hi'm with her eyes, wondered if there was such 

But Mary forgot ail about the struggling eques- i another soldier in all her Majesty's dominions, 
trian the next moment. Siie had some morsel of! and how soon he would be made General-in-chief 
fancy-work upon her lap, and picked it up and s of the Army of the Indus. 

went on with it, setting slow stitches, .and letting; 'Then you've riot been wounded at all, Mr. 
her thoughts wander far away from Marchmont > Arnndel ?' she said, after a pause. 
Towers. To India, Lam afraid; or to that imagi- i 'Oh yes, I've been wounded; and I got a bullet 
nary India which she had created for herself out of J in my shoulder from an Afghan musket, and I'm 
such images as were to be picked up in the ,'Ara- { home on sick-leave.' 

bian Nights.' She was routed suddenly by the j This time he saw the expression of her face, 
opening of a door at the farther end of the room, J and interpreted her look of alarm, 
and by the voice of a servant who mumbled a > 'But I'm not ill, you know, Miss Marchmont,' 
name which sounded something like Mr. Armen- > he said, laughing. 'Our fellows are very glad of 
ger. ) a wound when they feel home-sick. The 8t'a 

She rose, blushing a little, to do honor to one \ come home before long, all of 'em; and I've a 
of her father's country acquaintance, as she twelvemonth's leave of absence; and we're pretty 
thought; when a fair-haired gentlejnan dashed in, \ sure to be ordered out again by the end of that 
very much excited and very wet, and made his ? time, as I don't believe there's much chance of 
way toward Her. ' ! quiet over there.' 

'I would come, Miss ivlarchmont,' he said, — 'I i 'You will go out again !' 
would come, though the day was so wet; every 1 Edward Arundel smiled at her mournful tone. 
body»vowed I was mad to think of it, and it was ', 'To be sure, Miss Mary; I have my captaincy 
as much as my poor brute of a horse could do to • to win you. know. I'm only a lieutenant as yet.' 
get over the ten miles of swamp between this and f 'It was only atwelvemonth's reprieve, after all, 
my uncle's house; but 1 would come. Where's ' then,' Mary thought. He would go again to suf- 
John? I want to see John. Didn't I always tell J fer, and to be wounded, and to die, perhaps. But 
him he'd come into the Lincolnshire property ?< then, on the other hand, there was a twelve- 
Didn't I always say so, now? You should have j month's respite, and her father might in that time 
seen Martin Mostyri's face — he's got* a capital ; prevail upon the young soldier to stay at March- 
berth in the War Office, and he's such a snob ! — ■: mont Towers. It was such inexpressible happi- 
when I told him the news ! It was as long as my j ness to'see»him once more, to know that he was 
arm. But I must see John, dear old fellow; I ; safe and well, that she cpuld scarcely do other- 
long to congratulate him.' wise than see all things in a sunny light just now. 

Mary stood with her hands clasped, and her<; She ran to John Marchmont's study to tell him 
breath coming quickly. The blush had quite fadecl of the coming of this welcome visitor; but she 
out, andlefther unusually pale, but Edward Arun- ■; wept upon her father's shoulder before she could 
del did not see this. Young gentlemen of four- ! explain who it was whose coming had made her 
and-twenty are not very attentive to every change so glad. Very few friendships had broken the 
of expression in little girls of thirteen. ! monotony of her solitary existence; and Edward 

«Oh, is it you, Mr. Arundel? Is it really you?' j Arundel was the only chivalrous image she had 

She spoke in a low voice, and it was almost dif- j ever known out of her books, 
'fieult to keep the rushing tears back while she did j John Marchmont was scarcely Jess pleased than 
so. She had pictured him so often in peril, in j his child to see the man who nad Detriended him 
famine, in sickness, in death, that to see him here, in his poverty. ^ eve t r , Jl . as S re . art-fe H wel- 
well, happy, light-hearted, cordial, handsome, i come been given than that wnicn greeted Edward 
and brave, as she had seen him four and a half < Arundel at Marchmont lower*. 


'You will stay with us, of course, my deai (carefulness for others, a woman's unselfishness 
Arundel;' John said; 'you will stop for Sep tem- j and devotion. 

berandthe shooting. You know you promised Edward Arundel did not understand all this, 
you'd make this your shooting-box; and we'll ( but perhaps the greater part of it. 
build the tennis-court. Heaven knows there's j 'She is a dear little thing,' he thought, as he 
room enough for it in the great quadrangle, and (watched her clinging to her father's arm; and then 
there's a billiard-room over this, though I'm afraid j he ran off about Marchmont Towers, and insisted 
the table is out of order. But we can soon set jupon being shown over the house; and perhaps 
that right, can't we, Polly ■' ; for the first time since the young heir had shot 

'Yes., yes, papa; out of my pocket-money, if > himself to death upon a bright September morn- 
you like.' \ ing in a stubble-field within ear-shot of the park, 

Mary Marchmont said this in all good faith. It the sound of merry laughter echoed through the 
was sometimes difficult for her to remember that J long corridors, and resounded in the unoccupied 
her father was really rich, and had no need of i rooms. 

help out of her pocket-money. The slender sav- 1 Edward Arundel was in raptures v/ith every 
ings in the little purse had often given him some j thing. There never was such a dear old place, 
luxury that he would not otherwise have had in ; he said. 'Gloomy,' 'dreary,' 'draughty,' pshaw! 
the time gone by. i Cut a few logs out of that wood at the back there, 

'You got my letter, then?' John said; 'the letter \ pile 'em up in the wide chimneys, and set a light 
in which 1 told you — ' ] to 'em, and Marchmont Towers would be like a 

'That Marchmont Towers was yours. Yes, my baronial mansion at Christmas-time. He declared 
dear oltfboy. That letter was among a packet my that every dingy portrait he looked at was a Ru- 
agent brought me half an hour before 1 left Cal- bens or a Vefasquez or a Vandyke, a Holbein or 
cutta. God bless you, dear old fellow; how glad a Lely. 

I was to hear of it! I've only been in England a 'Look at that fur border to the old woman's 
fortnight. I went straight from Southampton to black velvet gown, John; look at the coloring of 
Dangerfield to see my father and mother, staid J the hands! Do you think that any body but Peter 
there little over ten days, and then offended them j Paul could have painted thaft Do you see that 
all by running away. I reached Swampington girl with the blue satin stomacher arid the flaxen 
yesterday, slept at my uncle Hubert's, paid my ringlets? — one of your ancestresses, Miss Mary, 
respects to my cousin Olivia, who is — well, I've \ and very like you. If that isn't in Sir Peter Lely's 
told you what she is — and rode over here this ) best style — his earlier style, you know, before he 
morning, much to the annoyance of the inhabi- j was spoiled by royal patronage and got lazy — I 
tants of the Rectory. So, you see, I've been do- j know nothing of painting.' 

ing nothing but offending people for your sake, > The young- soldier ray on in this manner, as he 
John, and for yours, Miss Mary. By-the-by, I've hurried his host from room to room; now throw- 
brought you such a doll !' i ing open windows to look out at the^vet prospect; 
A doll ! Mary's pale face flushed a faint crim- > now rapping against the wainscoat to find secret 
son. Did he think her such a child, then, this hiding-peaces behind sliding panels; nowstamping 
soldier; did he think her only a silly child, with > on the oak flooring in the hope of discovering a 
no thought above aidoll, when she would have trap-door. He pointed out at least ten eligible 
gone out to India, and braved every peril of that j sites for the building of the tennis-court; he sug- 
cruel country, to be his nurse and comfort in fever j gested more alterations and improvements than a 
and sickness, like the brave Sisters of Mercy she ( builder could have completed in a lifetime. The 
had read of in some of her novels ? j place brightened under the influence of his pres- 
Edward Arundel saw that faiat crimson glow ■ ence, as a'landscape lights up under a burst of 
lighting up in her face. ( sudden sunshine breaking through a dull gray 

'I beg your pardon, Miss Marchmont,' he said. ', sky. 

'I was only joking; of cpurse you are a young lady ; Mary Marchmont did not wait for the removal 

now, almost grown up, you know. Can you play ; of the table-cloth that evening, but dined with 

chess?' ) her .father and his friend in a snug oak-paneled 

'No, Mr. Arundel.' j chamber, half breakfast-room, half library, which 

'I am sorry for that; for I»have brought you a j opened out of the western drawing-room. How 

set of chessmen that once belonged to Dost Mo- ; different Edward Arundel was to all the rest of 

hammed Khan. But I'll teach you the game if \ the- world, Miss Marchmont thought; how gay, 

you like?' '< how bright, how genial, how happy ! The county 

'Oh yes, Mr. Arundel; I should like it very, - '.families, mustered in their fullest force, ouldn't 

very much.' , make such mirth among them as this young sol - 

The young soldier could not help being amused j dier in his single person, 
by the little girl's earnestness. fche was about ( The evening was an evening in fairy-land. Life 
the same age as his sister Lctitia; but oh, how was sometimes like the last scene in a pantomime, 
widely different to that bouncing and rather way- ; after all, with rose-co!ored cloud and golden 
ward young lady, who tore the pillow-lace upon j sunlight. 

her muslin frocks, rumpled her long ringlets, ; One of the Marchmont servants went over to 
rasped the skin off the. sharp points of her elbows 'Swampington early the next day to fetch Mr 
by repeated falls upon the gravel-paths at Dan- Arundel's portmanteaus from the Rectory; and 
gerficld, and tormented a long-suffering Swiss -at- : after dinner upon that second evening Marv 
tendant, half-lady's-maid, half-governess, from : Marchmont took her seat opposite Edward, anil 
morning till night! No fold was awry in Mary listened reverently while he explained to hei* the 
Marchmont's simple black silk frock; no plait \ moves upon the chess-board. 
disarranged in the neat cambric tucker that en- i 'So you don't know my cousin Olivia ; ' the 
circled the slender white throat. Intellect here young soldier said, by-and-by. 'That's odd 1 I 
reigned supreme. Instead of the animal spirits { should have thought she would have called unon 
of a thoughtless child, there was a woman's loviDg : you long before this.' v 


Mary Marchmont shook her head. ' pools lie here and there about the marshy suburbs; 

'No, 'she- said; 'Miss Arundel has never been ■: and in the dim distance the low line et the gray 
to see us; and I should so like to have seen her, ! sea meets the horizon. 

because she would hare told me about you. Mr. i But perhaps the positive ugliness ot the town 
Arundel has called once or twice upon papa; but J is something redeemed by the vague air ot ro- 
I have never seen him. He is not our clergyman, \ mance and old-world mystery which pervades it. 
you know; Marchmont Towers belongs to Kern-'; It is an exceptional place,_ and somewhat^ lnter- 
berling Parish.' 

'To be sure; and Swampington is ten miles off. 
But, fo.r all that, I should have thought Qlivia 
would have called upon you. I'll drive you over 
to-morrow, if John thinks me whip enough to 
trust you with me, and you shall see Livy. The 
Rectory's such a queer old place !' 

Perhaps Mr. Marchmont was rather doubtful 
as to the propriety of committing his little girl to 
Edward Ar.undel's charioteership for a ten-mile 
drive upon a wretched road. Be it as it* might, a 
lumbering- barouche, with a pair of overfed horses, 
was ordered next morning, instead of the high, 
old-fashioned gig which the soldier had proposed 
driving; and the safety of the two young people 
was confided to a sober old coachman, rather 
• sulky at the prospect of a drive to Swampington 
so soon' after the rainy weather. 

It does not rain always even in this part o" 

esting thereby. The great Norman church upon 
the swampy waste, the scattered tombstones, bor- 
dered by the low and moss-grown walls, make a 
picture which is apt to dwell in the minds of those 
who look upon it, though it is by no means a 
pretty picture. The Rectory lies close to the 
church-yard; and a wicket-gate opens from Mr. 
Arundel's garden into a narrow pathway, leading 
across a' patch of tangled grass and through a 
lane of sunken and lop-sided tombstones, to the 
low vestry door. The Rectory itself is a long, 
irregular building, to which one incumbent after 
another has built the additional chamber, or 
chimney, or porch, or bow-window, necessary for 
his accommodation. There is very little garden 
in front of the house, but a patch of- lawn and 
shrubbery and a clump of old trees at the back. 
'It's not a pretty house, is it, Miss Marchmont ?' 
asked Edward, as he lifted his companion out of 
Lincolnshire; and the July morning was brightHhe carriage, 
and pleasant, the lifw hedges fragrant with stwry,^ 'No, not very pretty,' Mary answered; 'but I 
opal-tinted wild roses and waxen honey-suckle,;' don't think anything is pretty in Lincolnshire, 
the yellowing corn waving in the light summer /Oh, there's the sea!' she cried, looking suddenly 
breeze. Mary assured her companion that she' across the marshes to the low gray line in the dis- 
had no objection whatever to the odor of cigar/ tance. 'How I wish we were as near the sea at 
smoke; so Mr. Arundel lolled upon the cdmfort-j> Marchmont Towers !' 

able -cushions of the barouche, with his back to? The young lady had something of a romantic 
the horses, smoking, cheroots and talking gayiy, / passion for the wide-spreading ocean. It was an 
while Miss Marchmont fat in the place of state j unknown region, that stretched far away, and 
opposite to him. A happy drive: a drive in a } that was wonderful and beautiful by reason of its 
fairy chariot through regions of fairy-land, for-/ solemn mystery. All her Corsair stories were 
ever and forever to be remembered by Mary J allied to that far, fathomless deep. The .white 
Marchmont. ' sail in the distance was Conrad's, perhaps; and 

They left the straggling hedges and the yellow-} he was speeding homeward to find Medora dead 
ing corn behind them by-and-by, as they drew} in her lonely watch-tower, with fading flowers 
nearthe outskirts of Swampington. The town '.upon her breast. The black hull yonder was the 
lies lower even than the surrounding country, ' bark of some terrible pirate bound on rapine and 
flat and low as that country is- A narrow and J ravage. (She was a coal-barge, I have no doubt, 
dismal river crawls at the base of a 'half-ruined i, sailing Londonward with her black burden.) — 
wall, which once formed part of the defenses of ; Nymphs and Lurleis, Mermaids and Mermen, and 
the place. Black barges lie at anchor here, and / tiny water-babies with silver tails, forever splash- 
a stone bridge, guarded by a toll-house, spans the J ing in the sunshine, were all more or less asso- 
river. Mr. Marchmont 's carriage lumbered across > ciated with the long gray -line toward which 
this bridge, and under an .arch-way, low, dark, ; Mary Marchmont looked with solemn, yearning 
stony, and grim, into a narrow street of solid, >' eyes. 

well-built houses, low dark, stony, and grim, ; ; ( ^ V11 drive down to the se a-shore some morn- 
like the arch-way, but bearing the stamp of repu-;; Polly,' said Mr. Arundel. He was beginning 
table occupation. I believe the grass grew, and; to ° call her Polly; now and theil) in the easy fa . 
still grows, in this street, as it does in all the ; ; miliarity of the ir intercourse. 'We'll spend a 
other streets and in the market-place, of Swamp-; j dn the sandSj and rn smoke cheroots 
ington. ihey are all pretty much m the same ■; wMJe ick u shells and sea . wee d.' 

style, these streets— all stony, narrow, dark, and/ .,„.,», . , , , , , . ., . 

-rim ; and they wind and twist hither and thither, > R " ss Marchmont clasped her hands in silent 
and in and out, in a manner utterly bewildering > f.aP^: .Her face was .irradiated by the new 
to the luckless stranger, who, seeing that they; J? 11 * of happiness How good ho was to her, 
are all alike, has no landmarks for his guidance. Jh« brave soldier, who must undoubtedly be made 
There are two handsome churches, both bear-; Commander-m-chief of the Army of the Indus in 
ing an early date in the history of Norman su- ; a y eal " or so • 

premacy: one crowded into an inconvenient cor-;! Edward Arundel led his companion across the 
ner of a back street, and choked by the houses \ flagged way between the iron gate of'the Rectory 
built up round about it; the other lying a little ; garden and a half-glass door leading into the 
out of the town, upon a swampy waste looking;, hall. Out of this simple hall, only furnished' 
toward the sea, which flows' within a mile of '; with a couple of chairs, a barometer, and an um- 
Swampington. Indeed, there is no lack of water '< brella-stand, they went, without announcement, 
in that Lincolnshire borough. The river winds ; into a low old-fashioned room, half study, half 
about the outskirts of the town; unexpected parlor, where a young lady was sitting at a tabic 
creeks and inlets meet you at every angle; shallow >, writing. 



:ar little girl, and I know she means to love wood; but as Edward declared the spot in every 
.' | way eligible, John had no inclination to find fault 

lary lifted her soft brown eyes to the face of ! with his friend's choice. There was other work 

She rose as Edward opened the door, and came ; heart, to boast of his prowess before Mary and 
to ineet'him. , her father. . ,. 

'At last !' she said ; 'I thought your rich friends The young man was by this time familiar with 
engrossed all your attention.' : every nook and corner of Marchmont lowers; 

She paused, seeing Mary. ' and the builders were already at work at the ten- 

'This is Miss Marchmont, Olivia,' said Ed- ' nis-court which John had promised to erect lor Ins 
ward; 'the only daughter of my old friend.— < friend's pleasure. The site ultimately chosen was 
You must be very fond of her, please; for she is J a bleak corner of the eastern front, looking to the 
a dear . 

Mary luted her sott Drown eyes „« -- 

the young lady, and then dropped her eyelids sud- \ for the builders; for Mr. Arundel had taken a won- 
denly, as if half frightened by what she had seen ' derful fancy to a ruined boat-house upon the brink 
there. # ! of the river; and this boat-house was to be^rebuilt 

What was it? What was it in Olivia Arun-j and restored, and made into a delightful pavilion, 
del's handsome face from whicti those who looked in" the upper chambers of which Mary might sit 
at her so often shrank, repelled and disappointed ? with her father in the hot summer weather, while 
Every line in those perfectly-modeled features ' Mr. Arundel kept a couple of trim wherries in 
was beautiful to look at; but as a whole the face f the recesses below. 

was not beautiful. Perhaps it was too much like [ So you see the young man made himself very 
a marble mask, exquisitely chiseled,'but wanting (much at home, in hisown innocent, boyish fash- 
in variety of expression. The handsome mouth ion, at Marchmont Towers. But as he had brought 
was rigid; the dark gray eyes had a cold light in 
them. The thick bands of raven-black hair were 
drawn tightly off* a square forehead, which was 
the brow of an intellectual and determined man 
rather than of a woman. Yes, womanhood was 
the something wanted in Olivia Arundel's face. 
Intellect, resolution, courage, are rare gifts; but 
they are not the gifts whose tokens we look for j 
most anxiously in a woman's face. If Miss Arun- j 
del had been a queen, her diadem would have be- j 
come her nobly, and she might have been a very 
great queen; but Heaven help the wretched crea- 
ture who had appealed from milder tribunals to 
/*er mercy ! Heaven help delinquents of every 
kind whose last lingering hope had been in her 
compassion ! 

Perhaps Mary Marchmont vaguely felt some- 
thing of all this. At any rate, the enthusiasm 
with which she had been ready to regard Edward 
Arundel cooled suddenly beneath the winter in 
that pale, quiet face. 

life and light to the old Lincolnshire mansion, no- 
body was inclined to quarrel with him for any 
liberties which he might choose to take; and every 
one looked forward sorrowfully to the dark days 
before Christmas, at which time he was under a 
promise to return to Dangerfield Park, there to 
spend the remainder of his leave of absence. 


While busy workmen were employed at March- 
mont Towers', hammering at the fragile wooden 
walls of the tennis-court-while Mary March- 
mont and Edward Arundel wandered, with the 
dogs at their heels, among the rustle of the fallen 
leaves in the wood behind the .great gaunt Lin- 
colnshire mansion — Olivia, the Rector's daughter, 
Miss* Aru'nder'saTd a few words to her guest, '■ 3at in her father's quiet study, or walked to and 
kindly enough, but rather too much as if she had < fro in the gloomy streets of bwampington, doing 
been addressing a child of six. Mary, who was ; ner duty day by day. ..,-,.,, 

accustomed to be treated as a woman, was wound- ! Yes > the llfe ot Uils woman is to d in these few 
ed by her manner ; words; she did her duty. Irom the earliest age 

'How different she is to Edward !' thought Miss \ a ' which responsibility can begin she had done her 
Marchmont. 'I shall never like her as I like him.' ( duty, uncomplainingly, unswervingly, as it seemed 

'So this is the pale-faced child who is to have * t0 lhose who watched her. 
Marchmont Towers by-and-by,' thought Miss! She was a good woman. The bishop of the di- 
Arundel; 'and these- rich friends are the people ocese had specially complimented her for her 
for whom Edward stays away'- from us. ' aclive devotion to the holy work which falls some- 

The lines about the rigid mouth grew harder, ! vvhat heavily upon the only daughter of a widowtd 
the cold light in the gray eyes grew colder, as the f rector. All the stately dowagers about fcwamp- 
young lady thought this. ! mgton were loud in the praises of Olivia Arun- 

It was thus that these two women met: while i dei - Such devotion, such untiring zeal in a young 
one was but a child in years; while the other was j person of three-and-twcnty years of age, were 
yet in the early bloom of womanhood: these two, really most laudable, these solemn elders said, 
who were predestined to hate each other, and in- '» terms of supreme patronage; for the young 
flict suffering upon each other in the days that I saint ot ' whom they spoke wore shabby gowns, 
were to come. It was thus that they thought of j and was the portionless daughter of a poor man 
one another; each with an unreasoning dread, an ( " vl '° had let the world slip by him, and who sat 
undefined aversion gathering in her breast. j now amidst the dreary ruins of a wasted life, look- 

ing yearningly backward with hollow, regretful 
Six weeks passed, and -Edward Arundel kept 'eyes, and bewailing the chances he had lost. Hu- 
his promise of shooting the partridges on the I bert Arundel loved his daughter; loved her with 
Marchmont preserves. The wood behind" the that passionate, sorrowful affection we fee) for 
Towers and the stubbled corn-fields on the home j those who sutler for our sins, whose lives have 
farm bristled with game. The young soldier j »een blighted by our follies. 
heartily enjoyed himself through that delicious j Every shabby garment which Olivia wore was 
first week in September; and came home every a separate reproach to her father; every de^riva. 
afternoon, with a heavy game-bag and a light j tion she endured stun*g him as cruelly as if sh e 


had turned upon him and loudly upbraided him ] every side with calm, scrutinizing eyes; rigidly 
for his wasted life and his squandered patrimony, 'just, terribly perfect. 

He loved her; and he watched her day after day, ; It was a fearfully monotonous, narrow, and un- 
doing her duty to him as to all others; doing her \ eventful life which Olivia Arundel led at Swamp- 
duty forever and forever; but when he most ', ington Rectory- At three-and-twenty years of 
yearned to take her to his heart, her own cold per- ' age she could have written her history upon a few 
lections arose and separated him from the child ; pages. The world outside that dull Lincolnshire 
he loved. What was he but a poor, vacillating, ; town was shaken by convulsions, and made inf- 
erring creature: weak, supine, idle, epicurean; ; cognizable by repeated change; but all these outer 
unworthy to approach this girl, who never'seemed i changes and revolutions made themselves but little 
to sicken of the hardness of her life— who never ; felt in the quiet grass-grown streets, and the flat 
grew weary of well-doing? ; surrounding swamps, within whose narrow bound- 

Rut how was it that, for all her goodness, Oii- J ary Olivia Arundel had lived from infancy to 
via Arundel won so small a share of earthly re- ', womanhood; perforating and repeating the same 
ward ? I do not speak of the gold and jewels and I duties from day to day, with no other progress to 
other worldly benefits with which the fairies in : mark the lapse of^her existence than the slow 
our children's story-books reward the benevolent ' alternation of the seasons, and the dart hollow 
mortals who take compassion upon them in the ; circles which 1 had lately deepened beneath her 
guise of old women; but rather of the love and j gray eyes, and the depressed lines about the cor- 
gratitude,the tenderness and blessings which usu- ; ners of her firm lower lip. 

ally wait upon the footsteps of those who do good ; These outward tokens, beyond her own control, 
deeds. Oiivia Arundel's charities were never j alone betrayed this woman's secret. She was 
ceasing; her life was one perpetual sacrifice to ( weary of her life. She sickened under the dull 
her father's-parishioners. There was no natural ; burden which she had borne so long, and carried 
womanly vanity, no simple girlish fancy, which '■ so patiently. The slow round t>f duty was loath- 
this woman had not trodden underfoot, and tram- : some to her. The horrible, narrow, unchanging 
pled out in the hard pathway she had chosen for '' existence, shut in by huge, walls, which bounded 
herself. ' . her on every side and kept her prisoner to her- 

The poor people knew this. Rheumatic men ■ self, was odious to her. The powerful intellect 
and women,- crippled and bedridden, knew that j revolted against the fettere that bound and galled 
the blankets which covered them had been bought ; it. The "proud heart' beat with murderous vio- 
out of money that would have purchased si;k ) ience against the bonds that kept it'eaptive. 
dresses for the Rector's handsome daughter, or !; 'Is my life always to be this — always, always, 
luxuries for the frugal table at the Rectory. — ' always ?' The passionate nature burst forth some- 
They knew this. They knew that, through frost ' times, and the voice that had so long been stifled 
and snow, through storm and rain, Oiivia Arun- '' cried aloud in the black stillness of the night, *Ls 
del would come to sit beside their dreary hearths, < it to go on forever and forever, like the slow river 
their desolate sick-beds, and read holy books to j that creeps under the broken wall ? Oh my God ! 
them; sublimely indifferent to the fout weather ; is the lot of other women neverto be mine ? Am 
without, to the stifling atmosphere within, to dirt, } I never to be loved and admired;, never to be 
discomfort, poverty, inconvenience; heedless of ( sought and chosen? Is my life to be all of one 
all except the performance of the task she had ) dull,, gray, colorless monotony', without one sud- 
set herself. J den gleam of sunshine, without one burst of rain- 

People knew this, and they were' grateful to ' bow light?' 
Miss Arundel, and submissive and attentive in her j How shall I anatomize this woman, who, gifted 
presence; they gave her such return as they were < with no womanly tenderness of nature, unen- 
able to give, for the benefits, spiritual and tempo- ? dowed with that pitiful and unreasoning affection 
ral, which she bestowed upon them: but they did i which makes womanhood beautiful, yet tried, and 
not love her. > tried unceasingly, to do her duty and to be good; 

They spoke of her in reverential accents, and ) clinging, in the very blindness of her soul, to the 
praised her whenever her name was mentioned; i rigid formulas of her faith, but unable to seize 
but'they spoke with tearless eyes and unfaltering \ upon its spirit. Some latent comprehension of the 
voices. Her virtues were beautiful, of course, ; want in her nature made her.only the more scru- 
as virtue in the abstract must always be; but I :• pulous in the performance of those duties which 
think thste was a want of individuality in her , she had meted out for herself. The holy senten- 
goodness, a lack of personal tenderness in her -ces she had heard, Sunday after Sunday, feebly 
kindness, which separated her from the people > read by her father, haunted her perpetually, and 
she benefited. would not be put away from her. The tenderness 

Perhaps there was something almost chilling in inevery word of those familiar gospels was a re- 
the dull monotony of Mi-.s Arundel's benevolence, proach to the want of tenderness in her own 
There was no blemish of moral weakness upon :• heart. She could be good to her father's parish- 
the good deeds she performed; and (he recipients ■'. ioners, and she could make sacrifices for them; 
of ht-r bounties, seeing her so far off, grew afraid : but she could not love them any more than they 
of her, even hy reason of her goodness, and could ' could love her. 

not love her. That divine and universal pity, that spontane- 

She made no favorites among her father's pa- . ous and boundless affection, which is the chief 
rishioners. Of all the school-children she had , loveliness of womanhood and Christianity, had 
taught, sh" had never chosen one curly-headed ' no part in her nature. She could understand Jti- 
urrhin for a pet. She had no good days and had odith with the Assyrian general's gory head held 
day-; she was never foolishly indulgent or extrsiv- aloft in her uplifted hand; but she could not com- 
agantly cordial. She was always the same— prehend that diviner mystery of sinful Magda- 
Church-of-Kngland charity personified; meting lene sitting at her Master's feet with the shame 
out all,mercies by line and rule; doing good with | and love in her face half-hidden by a veil of droop- 
a note-book" and a pencil in' her hand; looking on 1 ing hair. 


No; Olivia Arundel was not a good woman in ', Miss Arundel stood b'y tlie Rectory gate in the 
the commoner sense we attach to the phrase. It pearly September evening, watching the western 
was not natural to her to be gentle and tender, to 'sunlight on the low sea-line beyond the marshes, 
be beneficent, compassionate, and kind, as it is to ', She was wearied and worn out by a long day de- 
the women we are accustomed to call 'good. ' ', voted to visiting among her parishioners; and she 
She was a woman who was forever fighting against 'stood with ber'elbow leaning on the gate, and her 
her nature; who was forever striving to do right; \ head resting on her hand, in an attitude peculiarly, 
forever walking painfully upon the difficult road J expressive of fatigue. She had thrown off her 
mapped out forher; forever measuring herself hy \ bonnet, and her black hair was pushed carelessly 
the standard she had setup for her self-abase- ', from her forehead. Those masses of hair had not 
ment. And who shall say that such a woman as that purple lustre, nor yet that wandering glimmer 
this, if she persevere unto the end, shall not wear) of red gold, which gives peculiar beauty to some 
a brighter crown than her more gentle sisters — J raven tresses. Olivia's hair was long and luxu- 
' the starry circlet of a martyr? 'riant, but it was of that dead inky blackness, 

■'* If she persevere unto the end ! But was Olivia > which is all shadow. It was dark, fathomless, 
Arundel the woman to do this?- The deepening ; inscrutable, like herself. The cold gray eyes 
circles about her eyes, the hollowing cheeks, and (looked thoughtfully seaward. Another day's duty 
the feverish restlessness of manner which she 'had been done. Long chapters of Holy Writ had 
could not always control, told -how terrible the ', been read to troublesome old women afflicted with 
long struggle had hecome to her. If she could ; perpetual coughs; stifling, airless cottages had 
have died then— if she had fallen benealh the ', been visited; the dull, unvarying track had been 
weight of her burden — what a record of sin and ', beaten by the patient feet, and the yellow sun was 
anguish might have relhained unwritten in the 'going down upon another joyless day. But did 
history of womaji's life ! But this woman was ', the still evening hour bring peace to that restless 
one of those who can suffer, and yet not die. She (spirit? No; by the rigid compression of the lips, 
bore her burden a little longer; only to fling it J by the feverish lustre in the eyes, hy the faint 
down by-and-by, and to abandon herself to the j hectic flush in the oval cheeks, by every outward 
eager devils who had been watching for her so Ssign of inward unrest, Olivia Arundel was not at 
untiringly. ; peace. The listlessness of her attitude was merely 

Hubert Arundel was afraid of his daughter. 'the listlessness of physical fatigue.' The mental 
The knowledge that he had wronged her — wronged /'struggle was not finished with the close of the 
her even before her birth by the foolish waste of ', day's work. 

his patrimony, and wronged her through life by j The young lady looked up suddenly as the tramp 
his lack of energy in seeking such advancement^ of a horse's hoofs, slow and lazy-sounding on the 
as a more ambitious man might have won — the ', smooth road, met her ear. Her eyes dilated, and 
knowledge t)f this, and of his daughter's superior Jher breath went and came more rapidly, but she 
virtues, combined to render the father ashamed ', did not stir from her weary attitude, 
and humiliated by the presence of his only child. >, The horse was from the stables at Marchmont 
The struggle between this fear and his passionate \ Towers, and the rider was Mr>. Arundel. He came 
love of her was a very painful one; but fear had ', smiling to the Rectory gate, with the low sun- 
the mastery, and the Rector of Swampington was ; ' shine glittering in his yellow hair, and the light 
content to stand aloof, mutely watchful of his >, of careless, indifferent" happiness irradiating his 
daughter, wondering feebly whether she was J handsome face. 

happy, striving vainly to discover that one secret, { 'You must have thofight I'd forgotten you and, 
that keystone of the soul, which must exist in j; my uncle, my dear Livy,' he said, as he sprang 
every nature, however outwardly commonplace. [, lightly from his horse. 'We've been so busy with 
Mr. Arundel had hoped that his daughter would '■', the tennis-court, and the boat-house, and the par- 
marry, and marry well, even at Swampington; ', tridges, and goodness knows what besides at the 
for there were rich young land-owners who visited I Towers, that I couldn't get the time to ride over 
at the Rectory. But Olivia's handsome face won < till this evening. But to-day we dined early, 
her no admirers', *and at three-and-twenty Mission purpose that I might have the chance of get- 
Arundel had received no offer of marriage. Thei ting here. I come upon an important mission, 
father reproached himself for this. It was he \ Livy, I assure you.' 
who had blighted the life* of this penniless girl;; 'What do you mean ?' 

it was his fault that no suitors came to woo his : There was no change in Miss Arundel's voice 
motherless child. Yet many dowerless maiden? I when she spoke to her cousin ; but there was a 
have been sought and loved; and I do not thinl \ ;hange, no^easily to be defined, in her face when 
it was Olivia's lack of fortune which kept admi- \ she looked at him. It seemed as if that weary 
rers at bay. [ believe it was ratherthat inherem \ hopelessness of expression which had settled on 
want of tenderness which chilled and dispirited 5 her countenance lately grew more weary, more 
the timid young Lincolnshire squires. \ hopeless, as she turned toward this bright young 

Had Olivia ever been in love? Hubert Arun- 5 soldier, glorious in the beauty of his own light- 
del constantly asked himself this question. He \ heartedness. It may have been merely the sharp- 
did so because he saw that some blighting influ- i ness of contrast which produced this effect. It 
ence, even beyond the poverty and dulness of her < may have been an actual change arising out of 
home, had fallen upon the life of his only child. \ some secret hidden in Olivia's breast. 
What was it? What was it? Was it some hope-j 'What do you mean by an important mission, 
less attachment, some secret tenderness, which Edward ?' she said, 
had never won the sweet return of love lor love? She had need to repeat the question; for the 

He would no more have ventured to question young man's attention had wandered from her, 
his daughter upon this subject than he would have and he was watching his horse as the animal 
dared to ask his fair young Queen, newly mar- cropped the tangled herbage about the Rectory 
ried in those days, whether she was happy with gate. 

Uer handsome husband. 'Why, I've come with an iaritation to aiiilfflM 



at Marchmont Towers. There's to be a dinner- ', were talking of you, and praising your goodness, 
party; and, in point of fact, it's to be given on j and speaking of your schools, and your blanket 
purpose for you and my uncle. John and Polly ', associations, and your invalid societies, and your 
are full of it. You'll come, won't you, Livy ?' ', relief clubs, and all your plans for the parish.- 

Miss Arundel shrugged her shoulders, with an ', Why, you must work as hard as a prime minister, 
impatient sigh. " $ Livy, by their account; you, who are only a few 

'I hate dinner-parties,? she said; 'but, of course, ^ years older than me.' 
if papa accepts Mr. Marchmonl's invitation, 1 ', Only a few years ! She started at the phrase, 
can not refuse to go. Papa must chooses for him- \ and bit her lip. 
self. I 'I was three-and-twenty last month,' she said. 

There had been some interchange of civilities \ 'Ah, yes; to be sure. And I'm one-and-twenty. 
between Marchmont Towers and Swampington <IThen you're only two years older than me, Livy. 
Rectory during the six weeks which had passed ; But, then, you see, you 're so clever, that you seem 
since Mary's introduction to Olivia Arundel; and J much older than you are. You make a fellow feel 
this dinner-party was the result of John's simple i rather afraid of you, you know. Upon rny word 
desire to do honor to his friend's kindred. >you do, Livy.' 

'Oh, you must come, Livy,' Mr. Arundel ex-'. Miss Arundel did not reply to this speech of her 
claimed. 'The tennis-court is going on capitally. J cousin's. She was walking by his side up and 
I want you to give us your opinion again. ' Shall £down a narrow graveled pathway, bordered by u 
I take my horse round to the stable? I am going $ hazel-hedge; she had gathered one of the slen- 
to st<>D an hour or two, and ride back by moon- i Her twigs, and was idly stripping away the fluffy 
light.' ) ends. 

KJward Arundel took the bridle in his hand, < 'What do you think, Livy ?' cried Edward, sud- 
and the cousins walked slowly round by the low <denly. bursting out laughing at the end of the 
garden wall to a dismal and rather dilapidated J question. 'What do you think? It's my belief 
stable at the back of the Rectory, where Hubert ', you've made a conquest.' 
Arundel kept a wall-eyed white horse, long-legged, j 'What do you mean ?' 

shallow-chested,-and large-headed, and a fearfully J 'There you go; turning .upon a fellow as if you 
and wonderfully made phaeton, with high wheels J could eat him. Yes, Livy; it's no use your look- 
and a mouldy leathern hood. ^ ing savage. You've made a conquest; a»dofone 

Olivia walked by the young soldier's side with J of the best fellows in the world, too. John March- 
that air of weary indifference that had so grown i mont^ in love with you.' 

upon her very lately. Her eyelids drooped with \ Olivia Arundel's face flushed a vivid crimson to 
a look of sullen disdain; but the gray eyes glanced ' t the roots of her black hair, 
furtively now and again at her companion's hand- J 'How dare you come hereto insult me, Edward 
some face. He was very handsome. T.heglitter< Arundel?' she cried, passionately, 
of golden hair and of bright fearless blue eyes: \ 'Insult you ! Now, Livy dear, that's too bad, 
the careless grace peculiar to the kind of man we ', upon my word,' remonstrated the young man. 'I 
call 'a swell;' the gay insouciance of an easy, £ come and tell you that as good a man as ever 
candid, generous nature — all combined to make J breathed is over head and ears in love with you, 
Edward Arundel singularly attractive. These $ and that you may be mistress of one of the finest 
spoiled children of nature demand our admira-^ estates in Lincolnshire if you please, and you turn 
. tion, in very spite of ourselves. These beautiful ' f round upon me like no end of furies.' 
useless creatures call upon us to rejoice in theii J 'Because 1 hate to hear you talk nonsense,' 
valueless beauty, like the flaunting poppies in the <, answered Olivia, her bosom still heaving with that 
corn-field, and the gaudy wild-flowers in the ' t first outburst of emotion, but her voice suppressed 
grass. ^ and cold. 'Am I so beautiful, or so admired or 

The darkness of Olivia's face deepened after J beloved, that a man who has not seen me half a 
each furtive glance she cast at her cousin. Could J dozen times should fall in love with me? Do those 
it be that this girl, to whom nature had given ^ who know me estimate me so couch, or prize me 
strength but denied grace, envied' the superficial > t so highly, that a stranger should think of me? — 
attractions of the young man at her side? She I You do insult me, Edward Arundel, when you talk- 
did envy him; she envied him that sunny temper-^ as you have talked toiiight.' 
ament which was so unlike her own; she envied £ She looked out toward the low yellow light in 
him that wondrous power of taking life lightly. ^ the sky with a black gloom upon her face, whieh 
Why should existence be so bright ami careless to ' t no reflected glimmer of the sinking sun could il- 
him, while to her it was a terrible fever-dream, a J lumine, a settled darkness, near akin to the utter 
long sickness, a never-ceasing battle? > blackness of despair: 

'Is my uncle in the house?' Mr. Arundel asked, { 'But, good Heavens, Olivia, what do you mean?' 
as he strolled from the stable into the garden. > cried the young man. '1 tell you something that 
with his cousin by his side. , i I think a good joke, and you go and make a trag- 

'No; he has been out since dinner,' Olivia \ edy out of it. If I'd told Letitia that a rich wid- 
answered; 'but I expect him back every minute. > ower had fallen in love with her, she'd think it 
I came out into the garden— the house seemed so '> the finest fun in the world.' 
hot and stifling to-night, and I have been sitting > 'I'm not your sister Letitia.' 
in close cottages all day.' I 'No; but I wish you'd half as good a temper as 

'Sitting in close cottages !' repeated Edward I she has, Livy. However, never mind; I'll sayno 

'Ah, to be sure; visiting your rheumatic old pen- S more. If poor old Marchmont has fallen in love 

sioners, I suppose. How good you are, Olivia!' $ with you, that's his look-out. Poor dear old boy, 

'Good!' ] he's let out the secret of his weakness half a dozen 

She echoed the word in the very bitterness of a I ways within these last few days. It's Miss Arun- 

sconi that could not be repressed. \ del this, and Miss Arundel the other; so hanr , » 

'Yes; every body says so. The Millwarfls were j some, so dignified, so ladylike, so good ! That's 

at Marcbmont Towers the other day, and they j the way he goes on, poor simple old dear, without 


having the remotest notion that he's making a '/in my father's study, poring over the books that 
confounded fool of himself.' > were too difficult for him ? What have I made of 

Olivia tossed the rumpled hair from her fore- / myself in my pride of intellect? What reward 
head with an impatient gesture of the haod. /have I won for my patience ?' 

'Why should this Mr. Marchmont think all this > Olivia Arundel looked back at her long life of 
of me?' she said, 'when — ' She stopped ab- ' duty — a dull, dead level, unbroken by one of those 
ruptly. I; monuments which mark the desert of the past; 

'When — what, Livy?' . / a desolate flat, unlovely as the marshes between. 

'When other people don't think it.' <t- / the low Rectory wall and thu shimmering gray 

'How do you know what other people think? — \ sea. 
You haven't asked them, I suppose?' / 

The young soldier treated his cousin in very \ 

much, the same free-and-easy manner which he> — ■**♦ * — 

displayed toward his sister Letitia. It would have / 
been almost difficult for him to recognize any de- 
cree in his relationship to the two girls. He loved CHAPTER VIII. 
Letitia better than Olivia; but his affection for 
both was of exactly the same character. temptation. 

Hubert Arundel came into the garden, wearied ' Mr. Richard Paulette, of that eminent legal 
out, like his daughter, while the two cousins were/ firm, Paulette, Paulette, and Mathewson, coming 
walking under the shadow of the neglected ha- / to Marchmont Towers on business, was surprised 
zels. He declared his willingness to accept the / to behold the quiet ease with which the sometime 
invitation to Marchmont Towers, and promised to /copying-clerk received the punctilious country 
answer John's ceremonious note the next day. / gentry who came to sit at his board and do him 

'Cookson, from Kemberling, will be there, I / honor, 
suppose,' he said, alluding to a brother parson, J Of all the legal fairy tales, of all the parch- 
' and the usual set. : Well, I'll come, Ned, if you J ment-recorded romances, of all the poetry run 
wish it. You'd like to go, Olivia?' /into affidavits, in which the solicitor had ever been 

'If you like, papa.' /concerned, this story seemed the strangest. Not 

There was a duty to be performed now — the / so very strange in itself, for such romances are 
duty of placid obedience to her father;' and Miss / not uncommon in the history of a lawyer's expe- 
Arundel's manner changed from angry impatience j rience; but strange by reason of the tranquil man- 
to a grave respect. She owed no special duty, be i ner in which John Marchmont accepted his new 
it remembered, to her cousin. She had no line or position, and did the honors of his house to his 
rule by which to measure her conduct to him. j late employer. 

She stood at the gate nearly an hour later, and I 'Ah, Paulette,' Edward Arundel said, clapping 
watched the young man ride away in the dim J the solicitor on the back, '1 don't suppose you 
moonlight. If every separate tramp of his horse's i believed me when I told you that my friend here 
hoofs had struck upon her heart, it could scarcely £ was heir-presumptive to a handsome fortune.' 
have given her more pain than she felt s!i the '/ The dinner-party at the Towers was conducted 
sound of those slow footfalls died away in the /with that stately grandeur peculiar to such solem- 
distance. /nities. There was the usual round of country- 

'Oh my God!' she cried, 'is this madness to /talk and parish-talk; the hunting squires leading 
undo all that I have done? Is this folly to be the /the former section of the discourse, the reclor3 
climax of my dismal life? - Am I to die for the /and rectors' wives supporting the latter part of 
love of a frivolous, fair-haired boy, who laughs/the conversation. You heard on one side that 
in my face when he tells me that his friend has / Martha Harris's husband had left offdrinking, and 
pleased to "take a fancy to me ?" ' • /attended church morning and evening; and on the 

She walked away toward the house; then stop- /other, that the old gray fox that had been hunted 
ping, with a sudden shiver, she turned, and went /nine seasons between. Crackbin Bottom and Hol- 
back to the hazel-alley she had paced with Ed- / lowcraft G orse had perished ignobly in the poul- 
ward Arundel. / try-yard of a recusant farmer. While your left 

'Oh, my narrow life !' she muttered between /ear became conscious of the fact that little Billy 
her set teeth; 'my narrow life ! It is that which / Smithers had fallen into a copper of scalding wa- 
has made me the slave of this madness. 1 love /ter, your right received the dismal tidings that all 
him because he is the brightest and fairest thing / the young partridges had been drowned by the 
I have ever seen. I love him because he brings /rains after St. S within, and that there were hardly 
me all I have ever known of a more beautiful /any of this year's birds, Sir: 
world than that I live in. Bah ? why do I reason / Mary Marchmont had listened to gayer talk in 
with myself?' she cried, with a sudden change of /Oakley Street than any that was to be heard that 
manner. 'I love him because I am mad.' 'night in her father's drawing-rooms, except in- 

She paced up and down the hazel-shaded patlwdeed when Edward Arundel left off flirting with 
way till the moonlight grew broad and full, and /some pretty girls in blue, and hovered near her 
every ivy-grown gable of the Rectory stood sharp- /side for a little while, quizzing the company. — 
ly out against the vivid purple of the sky. She / Heaven knows the young soldier's jokes were corn- 
paced up and down, trying to trample the folly /monplace enough; but Mary admired him as the 
within her under her feet as she went; a fierce, /most brilliant and accomplished of wits. 
passionate, impulsive woman, fighting against her / 'How do you like my cousin, Polly ?' he asked 
mad love for a bright-faced^ boy. / at last. 

■Two years older— only two years!' she said;/ 'Your cousin, Miss Arundel?' 
•but he spoke of the difference between us as if it / 'Yes.' 
had been half a century. And then I am so clever, \ 'She is very handsome.' 

that 1 seem older than I am; and he is afraid of j 'Yes, I suppose so,' the young man answered 

•night ^carelessly.- 'Every body saya that Livy 'a hand. 

ljs it for this, that I have satnight- after i 



some; but it's rather a cold style of beauty, isn't 
it? A little too much of the Pallas Athene about < 
it for my taste. I like those girls in blue, with j 
the crinkly auburn hair — there's a touch of red in ' 
it in the light — and the, dimples. You've a dim- • 
pie, Polly, when you smile.' ; 

Miss Marchmont blushed as she received this ; 
information, and her soft brown eyes wandered | 
away, looking very earnestly at the pretty girls in 
blue. She looked at them with a strange inter- ; 
est, eager to discover, what it was that Edward ; 
admired. ; 

'But you haven't answered my question, Polly,' j 
said Mr. Arundel. 'I am afraid you have been- j 
drinking too much wine, Miss Marchmont, and < 
muddling that sober little head of yours with -the i 
fumes of your papa's tawny port. I asked you ) 
how you lilted Olivia.' ' 

Mary'blushed again. ; 

'I don't know Miss Arundel well enough to like \ 
her — yet,' she answered, timidly. j 

'But shall you like her when you've known her ' 
longer? Don't be Jesuitical, Polly. Likings and} 
dislikings are instantaneous .and instinctive. l\ 
liked you before I'd eaten half a dozen mouthfuls ) 
of the roll you buttered for me at that breakfast i 
in Oakley Street, Polly. You don't like my cousin J 
Olivia, Miss; I can see that very plainly. You're j 
jealous of her.' ! 

'Jealous of her !' ; 

The bright color faded out of Mary March- ; 
inont's face, and left her ashy pale. j 

'Do you like her, then ?' she asked. 

But Mr. Arundel was not such a coxcomb as to ', 
catch at the secret so naively betrayed in that ( 
breathless question. i 

'No, Polly,' he said, laughing; 'she's my cousin, ! 
you know, and I've known her all my life; and j 
cousins are like sisters. One likes to tease and ( 
aggravate them, and all that; but one doesn't fall ' 
in love with them. But I think I could mention ; 
somebody who thinks a great deal of Olivia.' ; 


'Your papa.' 

Mary looked at the young- soldier in utter bewil- 
derment. ; 

'Papa " she echoed. i 

'Yes, Polly. How would you like astepmamma? I 
How would you like your papa to marry again ?' ',■ 

Mary Marchmont started to her feet as if she j 
would have gone to her father in the midst of all ) 
those spectators. John was standing near Olivia > 
and her father, talking to them, and playing ner- 
vously with his slender watch-chain when he ad- ; 
dressed the young lady. i 

'My papa — marry again !' gasped Mary. 'How 
dare you say such a thing, Mr. Arundel ?' '. 

Her childish devotion to her father arose in all 
its force; a flood of passionate emotion that over- 
whelmed her sensitive nature. Marry again ! 
marry a woman who would separate him from his 
only child ! Could he ever dream for one brief 
■ moment of such a horrible cruelty? 

She looked at Olivia's sternly .handsome face 
and trembled. She could almost picture that very 
woman standing between her and her father, and 
putting her away from him. Her indignation 
quickly melted into grief. Indignation, however 
intense, was always short-lived in that gentle na- 

'Oh, Mr. Arundel !' she said,piteously, appeal- 
ing to the" young man; 'papa would never, never, 
never marry again—would he?' 

'Not if it was to grieve you, Polly, 1 dare say,' 
Edward answered, soothingly. 

He had been dumbfounded by Mary's passion- 
ate sorrow. He had expected that she would have 
been rather pleased than otherwise at the idea of 
a young step-mother— a companion in those vast 
lonely rooms, an instructress and a friend as she 
gfiw to womanhood. 

'I was only talking nonsense, Polly darling, 'he 
said. 'You mustn't make yourself unhappy about 
any absurd fancies of mine. I think your papa 
admires my cousin Olivia, and I thought, perhaps, 
you'd be glad to have a step-mother. ' 

'Glad to have any one who would take papa's 
love away from me?' Mary said, plaintively.— 
'Oh, Mr. Arundel, how could you think so?' 

In all their familiarity the little girl had never 
learned to call her father's friend by his Christian 
name, though he had often told her to do so. She 
trembled to pronounce that simple Saxon name, 
which was so beautiful and wonderful because it 
was his; but when she read a very stupid novel, 
in which the hero was a namesake of Mr. Arun- 
del's, the vapid pages seemed to be phosphores- 
cent with light whenever the name appeared upon 

I scarcely know why John Marchmont lingered 
by Miss Arundel 's chair. He had heard her praises 
from every one. She was a paragon of goodness, 
an uncanonized saint, ever sacrificing herself for 
the benefit of others. Perhaps he was thinking 
that such a woman as this would be the best friend 
he could win for his little girl. He turned from 
the county matrons, the tender,, kindly, motherly 
creatures, who would have been ready to take 
little Mary to the loving shelter of their arms, 
and looked to Olivia Arundel — this cold, perfect 
blhefactress of the poor — for help in his diffi- 

'She who is so good to all her father's parish- 
ioners, could not refuse to be kind to my poor 
Mary,' he thought. 

But how was he to win this woman's friendship 
for his darling? He asked himself this question 
even in the midst of the frivolous people about 
him, and with the buzz of their conversation in 
his earst He was perpetually tormenting himself 
about the future of his darling, which seemed 
more dimly perplexing now than it had ever ap- 
peared in Oakley Street, when the Lincolnshire 
property was a far-away dream, never to be re- 
alized, fie felt that his brief lease of life was 
running out; he felt as if he a,nd Mary had been 
standing upon a narrow track of yellow sand, very 
bright, very pleasant under the sunshine, but with 
the slow-coming tide rising like a wall about 
them, and creeping stealthily onward to over- 
whelm them. 

Mary might gather bright-colored shells and 
wet sea-weed in her childish igno'rance; but he, 
who knew that the flood was coming, could but 
grow sick at heart with the dull horror of that 
hastening doom. If the black waters had been 
doomed to close over them both, the father might 
have been content to go down under the sullen 
waves, with his daughter clasped to his breast. 
But it was not to be so. He was to sink in that 
unknown stream, while^she was left upon the tem- 
pest-tossed surface, to be beaten hither and thither, 
feebly battling with the stormy billows. 

Could John Marchmont be a Christian, and yet 
feel this horribla'tlread of the death which must 
separate him frdm his daughter? I fear this frail 
consumptive widower loved his child with an in- 


tensity of affection that' is scarcely reconcilable Thus it was that in the dark November days, 
with Christianity. Such great passions as these < while Edward and Mary played chess by the wide 
must be put away before the cross can be taken ; fire-place in the western drawing-room, or ball 
up and the troublesome path followed. In all love ' in the newly-erected tennis-court, John March- 
and kindness toward his fellow-creatures, in all ; mont sat in his study examining his papers, and 
patient endurance of the pains and troubles that j calculating the amount of money at his own dis- 
befell himself, it would have been difficult to find a ; posal, in serious contemplation of a second mar- 
more single-hearted follower of Gospel teaching ' riage. 

than John Marchmont; but in his affection for his Did he love Olivia Arundel? No. He admired 
motherless child he was a very pagan. He set up her and respected her, and he firmly believed her 
an idol for himself, and bowed himself before it. to be the most perfect of women. No impulse 
Doubtful and fearful of the future, he looked had prompted the step he contemplated taking, 
hopelessly forward. He could not trust his orphan : He had loved his first wife truly and tenderly; 
child into the hands of God, and drop away him- ; but he had never suffered very acutelyfrom any 
self into the fathomless darkness, serene in the- of those torturing emotions which form the sev- 
belief that she would be cared for and pr6tected. ; eral stages of the great tragedy called Love. 
Np; he could not trust. He could be faithful for ; ' But had he ever thought of the livelihood of his 
himself; simple and confiding as a child; but not • deliberate offer being rejected by the young lady 
for her. He saw the gloomy rocks lowering black ! who had been the object of such careful con'sid- 
in the distance; the pitiless waves beating far I eration ? Yes; he had thought of this, and was 
a\fay yonder, impatient to devour the frail boat prepared to abide the issue. He should, at least, 
that was so soon to be left alone upon the waters. ; hg,ve tried his uttermost to secure a friend for hi* 
In the thick darkness of the future he could see : darling. 

no ray of light, except one — a new hope that had ) With such unloverlike feelings as these the 
lately risen in his mind; the hope <ff winning , owner of Marchmont Towers drove into Swamp- 
some noble and perfect woman to be the future j ington one morning, deliberately bent upon offer- 
friend of his daughter. j ing Olivia Arundel his hand. He had consulted 
The days were past in which, in his simplicity, ; with his land-steward, and with Messrs. Paulettc, 
he had lookqd to Edward Arundel as the future ■ and had ascertained how far he could endow his 
shelter of his child. The generous boy had grown ; bride with the goods of this world. It was not 
into a stylish young man, a soldier, whose duty { much that he could give her, for the estate was 
lay faraway from Marchmont Towers. No; it '• strictly entailed, but there would be his own 
was to a good woman's guardianship the father > savings for the brief term of his life, and if he 
must leave his child. \ lived only a few years these savings might accu- 
Thus the very intensity of his love was the one : mulate to a considerable amount, so limited were 
motive which led John Marchmont to contemplate < the expenses of the quiet Lincolnshire household; 
the step that Mary thought such a cruel and bitter \ and there was a sum of money, something over 
wrong to her. nine thousand pounds, 16ft him by Philip March- 

; mont, senior. He had something, then, to offer 
It was not till long after the dinner-party at < to the woman he sought to make his wife, and, 
Marchmont Towers that these ideas resolved { above all, he had a supreme belief in Olivin 
.themselves into any positive form, and that John { Arundel's utter disinterestedness. He had seen 
began to think that for his daughter's sake he ( her frequently since the dinner-party, and had 
might be led to. contemplate a second marriage, i always seen her the same — grave, reserved, dig- 
Edward Arundel had spoken the truth when he ' nified; patiently employed in the strict perform- 
told his cousin that John Marchmont had repeat- \ ance of her duty. 

edly mentioned her name; but the careless and ; He found Miss Aru»del sitting in her father's 
impulsive young man had been utterly unable to \ study, busily cutting out coarse garments for the 
fathom the feeling lurking in his friend's mind. 5 poor. A newly-written sermon lay open on the 
It was not Olivia Arundel's handsome face which j table. Had Mr. Marchmont looked closely at the 
had won Johji's admiration; it was the constant, manuscript, he would have seen that the ink was 
reiteration of her praises upon every side which J wet and that the writing was Olivia's. It was a 
had led him to believe that this woman, of all ; relief to this strange ivomah to write sermons 
others, was the one whom he should win to be his , sometimes — fierce denunciatory protests against 
child's friend and guardian in the dark days that [ the inherent wickedness of the human heart. Can 
were to come. \ you imagine a woman with a wicked heart stead- 

The knowledge that Olivia's intellect was of no \ lastly trying to do good, and to be good? It is a 
common order, together with the somewhat im- (dark and horrible picture, but it is the only true 
perious dignity of her m»nner, strengthened this j picture of the woman whom John Marchmont 
belief in John Marchmont's mind. It was not a ) sought to win for his wife. 

good woman only whom he must seek in the friend ; The interview between Mary's father and Olivia 
he needed for his child; it was a woman powerful: Arundel was not a very sentimental one, 'but it 
enough to shield her in the lonely path she would \ was certainly the very reverse of common-place, 
have to tread; a woman strong enough to help j John was too simple-hearted to disguise the pur- 
her, perhaps, by-and-by, to do battle with Paul pose of his wooing. He pleaded not for a wife 
Marchmont. < for himself, but a mother for his orphan child 

So, in the blind paganism of his love, John re- j He talked of Mary's helplessness in the future 
fused to trust his child into the hands of Provi- ; not of his own love in the present. Carried awav 
dence, and chose for himself a friend and guar- ] by the egotism of his one affection, he let his mo- 
dian who should shelter his darling. He made his ; tives appear in all their' nakedness. He spoke 
choiee with so much deliberation, and after such • long and earnestly; he spoke until the blindin'-- 
long nights and days of earnest thought, that he \ tears in his eyes made the face of her he looked 
may be forgiven if he believed he had chosen ' at seem blotted and dim. 
wisely. Miss Arundel watched him as he pleaded- 


sternly, unflinchingly. But she uttered no word / he said, earnestly. 'If I had thought otherwise, 
untifhehad finished; and then, rising suddenly, J I should not have come here to-day. I want a 
with a dusky flush upon her face, she began to ; good woman to be kind to my child; kind to her 
pace up and down the narrow room. She had for- ; when I am dead and gone;' he added, in a lower 
gotten John Marchmont. In the strength and < voice. 

vigor of her intellect this weak-minded widower, < Olivia Arundel sat silent and motionless, look- 
whose one passion was a pitiful love for his child, ', ing straight before her out into the black dullness 
appeared so utterly insignificant that for a few ; of the garden. She was trying to think out the 
moments she had forgotten his presence in that ) dark problem of her life. 

room — his very existence, perhaps. She turned > Strange as it may seem, there was a certain 
to him presently, and looked him full in the face, i fascination for her in John Marchmont's offer. 
'You do not love me, Mr. Marchmont?' she J He offered her something, no matter what, it 
said. < would be a change. She had compared herself to 

'Pardon me,' John stammered; 'believe me, , a prisoner in the Bastile; and 1 think she felt very 
Miss Arundel, I respect, I esteem you so much, > much as such a prisoner might have felt upon his 
that — ' ) jailer's offering to remove him to Vincennes. The 

'That you choose me as a fitting friend for your \ new prison might be worse than the old one, per- 
chil'd. 1 understand. I am not the sort of wo- \ haps; but it would be different. Life at March- 
man to be loved. I have long comprehended that. < mont Towers might be more monotonous, more 
My cousin Edward Arundel has often taken the ; desolate than at Swampington; but it would be a 
trouble to tell me as much. And you wish me to ( new monotony, another desolation. Have you 
lie your wife in order that you may have a guar-: never felt, when suffering the hideous throes'of 
dian for your child? It is very much the same ) toothache, that it would be a relief to have the 
thing as engaging a governess; only the engage- < earache or the rheumatism — that variety even in 
ment is to be more binding. ' \ torture would be agreeable ? \ 

'Miss Arundel,' exclaimed John Marchmont, \ Then again, Olivia Arundel, though unblessed 

'forgive me! You misunderstand me; indeedyou \ with many of the chains of womanhood, was not 

do. Had I thought that I could have offended ) entirely without its weaknesses. To marry John 

you — ' ! Marchmont would be to avenge herself upon Ed- 

'I am not offended. You have spoken the truth ; ward Arundel. Alas ! she forgot how impossible 

where another man would have told a lie. I ought ) it is to' inflict a dagger-thrust upon him who is 

to be flattered by your confidence in me. It pleases ' guarded by the impenetrable .armor of indiffer- 

me that people should think me goodj and worthy j ence. She saw herself the -mistress of March- 

of their trust. ' ? mont Towers, waited upon by liveried servants, 

She broke into a weary sigh as she finished \ courted, not patronized, by the country gentry, 

speaking. \ avenged upon the mercenary aunt who had slighted 

'And you will not reject my appeal ?' \ her, who had bade her go out and get her living 

'I scarcely know what, to do,' answered Olivia, [ as a nursery governess. She saw this; and all 

pressing her hand to her forehead. \ that was ignoble in her nature arose, and urged 

She leaned against the angle of the deep case- \ her to snatch the chance offered her — the one 

ment window, looking out at the bleak garden, ) chance of lifting herself out of the horrible ob- 

desolateandneglectedintheblackwinterweather. ( scurity of her life. The ambition which might 

She was silent for some minutes. John March- 1 have made her an empress lowered its crest, and 

mont did not interrupt her; he was content to wait } cried, 'Take this; at least it is something. ' But 

patiently until she should choose to speak. j through all the better voices which she had en- 

'Mr. Marchmont,' she said at last, turning upon \ listed to do battle with the natural voice of her 

poor John with an abrupt vehemence that almost ■ soul cried 'This is a temptation of the devil; put 

startled him, 'I am three*-and-twenty; and in the > it away from thee !' 

long, dull memory of the three-and-twenty years ', But this temptation came to her at the very mo- 
that have made my life I can not look back upon \ ment when her life had become most intolerable; 
one joy — no, so heip me Heaven, not one !' she J too intolerable to be borne, she thought. She 
cried passionately, lifting her hand toward the [ knew now, fatally, certainly, that Edward Arun- 
low ceiling as she spoke. No prisoner in the Bas- ( del did not love her; that the one only day-dream 
tile, s'liut in a cell below the level of the Seine, i she had ever made for herself had been a snare 
and making companions of rats and spiders in his . and a delusion. That one dream had been the 
misery, ever led a life more hopelessly narrow, > single light of her life.' That taken away from 
more pitifully circumscribed than mine has been, j her,' the darkness was blacker than the blackness 
These grass-grown streets have made the bound- \ of death; more horrible than the obscurity of the 
ary of my existence. \ The fiat fenny country 5 grave. . 

round me is not flatter or more dismal than my > In all the future she had not one hope; no, not 
life. You will say that I should take an interest J one-. She had loved Edward Arundel with all 
in the duties which I do; and that they should be \ the strength of her soul; sh.e had wasted 'a world 
enough for mo. Heaven knows I have tried to do J of intellect and passion upon this bright-haired 
so; but my life is 'hard. Do you think there has S boy. This foolish, groveling madness bad been 
been nothing in all this to warp my nature? Do \ the blight of her life. But for this she might have 
you think, after hearing this, that I am the wo- ) grown out of her natural self by force of her 
man to be a second mother to your child?' '. conscientious desire to do right, and might have 

She sat down as she finished speaking, and her ■', become, indeed, a good and perfect woman. If 
hands dropped listlessly in her lap. The unquiet ', her life had been a wider one, this wasted love 
spirit raging in her breast had been stronger than < would perhaps have shrunk into its proper msig- 
herself, and had spoken' She had lifted the dull j nificance; she would have loved, and suffered 
veil through which the outer world beheld her, \ and recovered, as so many of us recover from 
-and had shown John Marchmont her natural face. < this foolish epidemic. But all the volcanic forces 
'I think you are a good woman, Miss Arundel,'; of an impetuous nature, concentrated into one 



narrow focus, wasted themselves upon this one 
feeling, until what should have been a sentiment 
became a madness. 

To think that in some far-away future time 
she might cease to love Edward Arundel, and 
learn to love somebody else, would have seemed 
about as reasonable to Olivia as to hope that she 
could have new legs and ^rms in that distant 
time. She could cut away this fatal passion with 
a desperate stroke, it may be, just as she could 
cut off her arm; but to believe that a new love J 
would grow in its place was quite as absurd as to I 
Believe in the growing of a new arm. Some 5 
cork montrosity might replace the "amputated ] 
limb; some sham and simulated affection might 5 
succeed the old love. I 

Olivia Arundel thought of all these things in I 
about ten minutes, by the little skeleton clock > 
upon the mantle-piece, and while John March- J 
mont waited very patiently for some definite an- ' 
swer to his appeal. Her mind came back at / 
last, after all its passionate wanderings, to the > 
rigid channel she had so laboriously worn for it — £ 
the narrow groove of duty. Her first words tes- '. 
tilled this. 

'If I accept this responsibility I will perform \ 
it faithfully,' she said; rather to herself than to '? 
Mr. Marchmont. ', 

'lam sure you will, Miss Arundel,' John an- ', 
swered, eagerly; 'I am sure you will. You mean ', 
to undertake it, then? you mean to consider my \ 
offer? May I speak to your father ? may I teli ;! 
him that I have spoken to you ? may 1 say thai ', 
you have given me a hope of your ultimate con-j 
sent?' >, 


'Will you be sorry when 1 am married, Ed- 
ward Arundel ?' she murmured; 'will you be 

yes,' Olivia said, rather impatiently;' 
'speak to my father; tell him any thing you; 
please. Let him decide for me; it is my duty to ' 
obey him.' " \ 

There was a terrible cowardice in this. Olivia \ 
Arundel shrank from marrying a man she dio ', 
not love, prompted by no better desire than the < 
mad wish to wrench herself away from her hated ', 
life. She wanted to fling the burden of respon- ', 
sibility in this matter away from her. Let another '/ 
decide; let another urge her to do this wrong:;; 
and let the wrong be called a sacrifice. ° ) 

So for the first time she set to work delib- '/ 
erately to cheat her own conscience. For the firs. ' 
time she put a false mark upon the standard she \ 
had made for the measurement of her moral '' 
progress. s / 

She sank into a crouching attitude on a low ' 
stool by the fire-place, in utter prostration oi \ 
body and mind, when John Marchmont had left i 
her. She let her weary head fall heavily against \ 
the carved oaken §hatt that supported the old- >' 
fashioned mantle-piece, heedless that her brow ', 
struck sharply- against the corner of the wood- 
work. • ' 

If she could have died then, with no more sin- 
ful secret than a woman's natural weakness hid- 
den in her breast — if she could have died then, 
while yet the first step upon the dark pathway j 
of her life was untrodden — how happy for h'er- j 
self ! how happy for others ! How miserable a \ 
record'of sin and suffering might have remained 
unwritten in the history of woman 's life ! 

She sat long in the same attitude. Once, and 
once only, two solitary tears arose in her eyes, 
and rolled slowly down her pale cheeks. 



Hubert Arundel was not so much surprised 
as might have been anticipated at the proposal 
made him by his wealthy neighbor. Edward 
Arundel had prepared his uncle for the possi- 
bility of such a proposal by sundry jocose allu- 
sions and arch hints upon the subject of John 
Marchmont's admiration for Olivia. The frank 
and rather frivolous young man thought it was 
his cousin's handsome face that had captivated 
the master of Marchmont Towers, and was quite, 
unable to fathom the hidden motive underlying 
all John's talk about Miss Arundel. 

The Rector of Swampington, being a simple- 
hearted and not very far-seeing man, thanked 
God heartily for the, chance that had befallen 
Tiis daughter. She would be well off and well cared 
for, then, by the mercy of Providence, in spite, 
of his own shortcomings, which had left her with 
no better provision for the future than a pitiful 
policy upon her father's life; She would be well 
provided for henceforward, and would live in a 
handsome house; and all those noble qualities 
which had been dwarfed and crippled in a nar- 
row sphere would now expand, and display them- 
selves in unlooked-for grandeur. 

'People have called her a good girl,' he 
thought; 'but how could they ever know her 
goodness, unless they had seen, as I have, the 
horrible deprivations she has borne so uncom- 

John Marchmont, being newly instructed by 
his lawyer, was able to give Mr. Arundel a very 
alear statement. of the provision he could make 
for his wife's future. He could settle upon her 
the nine thousand pounds left him by Phillip 
Vlarehmont. He would allow her five hundred 
a year pin-money during his lifetime; he would 
eave her his savings at his death-; and he would 
effect an insurance upon his life for her benefit. 
The amount of these savings would, of course, 
depend upon the length of John's life; but the 
money would accumulate very quickly, as his 
income was eleven- thousand a year, and his ex- 
penditure was not likely to exceed three. 

The Swampington living was wortli little 
more than three hundred and fifty pounds a 
year; and out of that sum Hubert Arundel and 
his daughter had done treble as much good lor 
the numerous poor of the parish as ever had been 
achieved by. any previous Rector or his family. 
Hubert and his daughter had patiently endured 
the most grinding poverty, the burden ever fall- 
ing heavier on Olivia, who had the heroic faculty 
of endurance as regards all physical discom- 
fort. Can it be wondered, then, that 4he Rec- 
tor of Swampington thought the prospect offered 
to his child a very brilliant one? Can it be won- 
dered that he urged his daughter to accept this 
altered lot? 

He did urge her, pleading John Marchmont's 
cause a great deal more warmly than the wid 
ower had himself pleaded. 

'My darling,' he said, 'my darling girl J if j 
can live to see you mistress of Marchmont 
Towers, I shall go to my grave contented and 


happy. Think, my dear, of the misery this mar-): watched you, my love, and I know you have not 

riage will save you from. Oh, my dear girl, I "been happy. But that is not strange, i Displace 

can tell you now what I never dared tell you he- \ is so dull, and your life has been so latiguing. 

fore; 1 can tell you of the long, sleepless nigh.tsjHow different that would all be at Marchmont 

1 have passed thinking of vou, and of the wicked \ Towers !' 

wrongs I have done you! Not willful wrongs, ', 'You wish me to marry Mr. Marchmont, then, 

my love,' the Rector added, with tears gather- ) papa?' 

ing in his eyes; 'for you know how dearly I have ; 'I do, indeed, my love. For your own sake, 

always loved you. But a father's responsibility : : of course,' the Rec/or added, deprecatingly.,^ 

toward his children is a very heavy burden.! 'Y r ou really wish it?' '■ 

I've only looked ct it in this light lately, my' 'Very, very much, my dear.' ' _]'■ 

dear— now that I've let the time slip by, and '■ 'Then I will marry him, papa." 

it is too late to redeem the past. I've suffered She took her hand from the Rector s shoulder, 

very much, Olivia; and all this has seemed to ; and walked away from him to the uncurtained 

•separate us, somehow. But that's past now, isn't ' window, against which she stood with her back 

it, my dear*? and you'll marry this Mr. March- ; to her father, looking out into the gray obscurity. 

mont. He seems to be a very good, conscien- \ I have said that Hubert Arundel was not a 

tious man, and I think he'll make you happy.' ; very clever or far-seeing person; but he vaguely 

The father and daughter were sitting together felt that this was not exactly the way in which 
after dinner in the dusky November twilight, \ a brilliant offer of marriage should be accepted 
the room only lighted by the fire, which was j by a young lady who was entirely fancy-free, and 
low and dim. Hubert Arundel could not see ; hehad an uncomfortable apprehension that there 
his daughter's face as he talked to her; he could ; was something hidden under his daughter's quiet 
only see the black outline of her figure sharply ; manner. 

denned against the gray window behind her, as; 'But, my dear Olivia,' he said, nervously, 
she sat opposite to him. He could see byhe'r<;'you must not for a moment suppose that I 
attitude that she was listening to him, with her ; would force you into this marriage, if it is in 
head drooping and her hands lying idle in her; any way repugnant to yourself. You— you may 
lap. have formed some prior attachment, or there 

She was silent for some little time after he': may be somebody who loves you, and has loved 
had finished speaking; so silent that he feared ; you longer than Mr. Marchmont, who — ' 
his words might have touched her too painfully, ; ; His daughter turned upon him sharply as he 
and that she was crying. J rambled on.. 

Heaven help this simple-hearted father! She; 'Somebody who loves me!' she echoed. 'What 
had scarcely heard three consecutive words that ; have you ever seen that should make you think 
he had spoken, but had only gathered dimly from ', any one loved me?' 

dis speech that he wanted her to accept John ; The harshness of her tone jarred upoft Mr. 
Marchmont's offer. ': Arundel, and made him still more nervous. 

Every great passion is a supreme egotism. It; 'My love, I beg your pardon. I have seen 
is not the object which we hug so determinedly; : nothing. I — ' 

it is not the object which coils itself about our ■; 'Nobody loves me, or has ever loved me — 
weak hearts; it is our own madness we worship 'but you,' resumed Olivia, taking no heed of her 
and cleave to, our own pitiable folly which we ; father's feeble interruption. 'I am not the 
refuse to put away from us. What is Bill Sykes's \ sort of woman to be loved; 1 feel and know 
broken nose or bull-dog visage to Nancy? The > that. I have an aquiline nose, and a clear skin, 
creature she loves and will not part with is not ;i and dark eyes, and people call me handsome; 
Bill, but her Own love for Bill — the one delusion \ but nobody loves me, or ever will, so long as I 
of a barren life; the one grand selfishness of a ;live.' 
feeble nature. ) 'But Mr. Marchmont, my dear— surely he loves 

Olivia Arundel's thoughts had wandered far ', and admires you?' remonstrated the Rector. 
away while her father had spoken so 'piteously to •; 'Mr. Marchmont wants a governess and 
her. She had been thinking of her cousin Ed- \ chaperon for his daughter, and thinks me a suita*- 
ward, and had been askin'g herself the same^ble person to fill such a post; that is all the lore 
question over and over again. Would he he ; Mr. Marchmont has for me. No, papa; there 
sorry? would he be sorry if she married John ' is no reason I should shrink from this marriage. 
Marchmont? ';, There is no one who will be sorry for it; no one. 

But she understood presently that her father > I am a^ked to perform a duty toward this little 
was waiting for her to speak; and, rising from ,'girl, and I am prepared to perform it faithfully, 
her chair, she went toward him, and laid her ', That is my part of the bargain. Do I commit a 
hand upon his shoulder. isin in marrying John Marchmont in this spirit, 

'1 am afraid I have not done my duty to you, papa?' 
papa,' she said. She asked {he question eagerly, almost breath- 

Latterly she had been forever harping upon ■'. lessly, as if her decision depended upon her 
this one theme — her duty! That woijd was the father's answer. 

key-note of her life; and her existence had 1 at- 'A sin, my dear! How can you ask such a 
lerly seemed to her so inharmonious that it was question?' 

scarcely strange she should repeatedly strike that .'Very well, then; if I commit no sin in accept- 
leading note in the scale. ;' in? this offer I will accept it.' 

'Vjy darling,' cried Mr. Arundel, 'you have; It was thus Olivia paltered with her con- 
been all that is good.' i seience, holding back half the truth. The ques- 

'No. no, papa; I have been cold, reserved, ; tion she should have asked was this— 'Do I corn- 
silent ' imita sin in marrying one man while my .heart 

'A little silent, my dear,' the Rector answered, is filled with a mad and foolish love for another*' 
meekly; -but you have not been happy. I have { Miss Arundel could not visit her poor upon, 



the clay after this interview with her father. 
Her monotonous round of duty seemed more than 
ever abhorrent to her. She wandered across 
the dreary marshes, down by the lonely sea- 
shore, m the gray November fog. 

She stood for a long time, shivering with the 
cold dampness of the atmosphere, but not even 
conscious tha* she was cold, looking at a dilapi- 
dated boat that lay upon the rugged beach. The 
waters before her and the land behind her were 
hidden by a dense veil of mist. It seemed as if 
she stood alone in the world— utterly isolated, 
utterly forgotten. 

'O, my God!' she murmured; 'if this boat at 
my feet could drift me away to some desert 
island, I could never be more desolate than I am 
among the people who do not love me." 

Dim lights in distant windows were gleaming 
across the flats when she returned to Swamping- 
ton, to find her father sitting alone and dispirited 
at his frugal dinner. Miss Arundel took her 
place quietly at the bottom of the table, with no 
trace of emotion upon her face. 

;I am sorry 1 stayed out so long, papa,' she 
said; 'I had no idea it%as so late.' 

'Never mind, my cfcr. I know you have 
always enough to ocHmpy you. Mr. Marchmont 
called while you wile ouk. He seemed very 
anxious to hear your decision, and was delighted 
when he found that it was favorable to himself.' 
Olivia dropped her knife and fork, and rose 
from her chair suddenly, with a strange look, 
which was almost terror, in her face. 
'It is quite decided, then ?' she said. 
'Yes, my love. But you are not sorry, are 
'Sorry! No; I am glad.' 
She sank back into her chair with a sigh of 
relief. She was glad. The prospect of this 
strange marriage offered a relief from the horri- 
ble oppression of her life. 

'Henceforward to think of Edward Arundel 
will be a sin,' she thought. 'I have not won 
another man's love, but 1 shall be another man's 



Perhaps there was never a quieter courtship 
than that which followed Olivia's acceptance of 
John Marchmont's offer. There had been no 
pretense of sentiment on either side; yet I doubt 
if John had been much more sentimental during 
his early love-making days, though he had very 
tenderly and truly loved his first wife. There 
were few sparks of the romantic or emotional 
fire in his placid nature. His love for his daugh- 
ter, though it absorbed his whole being, was a 
silent and undemonstrative affection; a thought- 
ful and almost fearful devotion, which took the 
form of intense but hidden anxiety for his child's 
future rather than any outward show of tender- 

Had his love been of a more impulsive and i 
demonstrative character, he would scarcely have ' 
thought of taking such a step as that he now con- '• 
templated, without first ascertaining whether it '• 
was agreeable to his daughter. ', 

But he never for a moment dreamed of con- ! 
suiting Mary's will upon this (important matter, < 

I He looked with fearful glances toward the dim 
future, and saw his darling, a lonely figure upon 
a barren landscape, beset with enemies eager to 
devour her; and he snatched at this one chance 
of securing her a protectress, who would be bound 
to her by a legal as well as a moral tie; for John 
Marchmont meant to appoint his second wife the 
guardian of his child. He thought only of this; 
and he hurried on his suit at the Rectory, fearful 
lest death should_come between him and his love- 
less bride, and thus deprive his darling of a second 
mother. , 

This was the history of John Marchmont's 
second marriage. It was not till a week before 
the day appointed for the wedding that he told 
his daughter what he was about to do. Edward 
Arundel knew the secret, but he had been warned 
not to reveal it to Mary. 

The father and daughter sat together late one 
evening in the first' week "of December, in the 
great western drawing-room. Edward had gone 
to a party at Swampington, and was to sleep at 
the Rectory; so Mary and her father were alone. 

It was nearly eleven o'clock; but Miss March- 
mont had insisted upon sitting up until her father 
should retire to rest. She had always sat up in 
Oakley Street, she had remonstrated, though she 
was much younger then. She sat on a velvet- 
covered hassock at her father's feet, with her fair 
hair falling over his knee, as her head lay there 
in loving abandonment. She was not talking to 
him; for 'neither John nor Mary were great 
talkers; but she. was with him — that was quite 
enough. • 

Mr. Marchmont's thin fingers twined them- 
selves listlessly in and out of the fair curls upon 
his kne%. Mary was thinking of Edward and the 
party at Swampington. Would he enjoy himself 
very, very much ? Would he be sorry that she 
was not there ? It was a grown-up party, and she 
wasn't old enough for grown-up parties yet. — 
Would the pretty girls in blue be there ? and 
would he dance with them? 

Her father's face was clouded by a troubled 
expression, as he looked absently at the red em- 
bers in the low fire-place. He spoke presently, 
but his observation was a very commonplace one. 
The opening speeches of a tragedy are seldom 
remarkable for"*any ominous or solemn meaning. 
Two gentlemen meet each other in a street very 
near the footlights, and converse rather flippantly 
about the aspect of affairs in general; there is no 
hint of bloodshed and agony till we get deeper into 
the play. 

So Mr. Marchmont, bent upon making rather 
an important communication to his daughter, and 
for the first time feeling very fearful as to how 
she would take it, began thus : 

'You really ought to go to bed earlier, Polly 
dear; you 'veieen looking very pale lately, and 
1 know such hours as these must be bad for you.' 

'Oh no, papa, dear, 'cried the young lady; 'I'm 
always v pale; that's natural to me. Sitting up 
late doesn't hurt me, papa. It never did in Oak- 
ley Street, you know.' 

John Marchmont shook his head sadly. 

'I don't know that,' he said. 'My darling had 
to suffer many evils through her father's poverty. 
If you had some one who loved you, dear, a lady 
you know— for a man does not understand these 
sort of things— your heakh would be looked after 
more carefully, and— and— your education— and 
-in*short, you would be altogether Jjappien 
wouldn't you, Polly darling." «"«•»■ 



He asked the question in an almost piteously ting down her white cheeks, but with a certain air 
appealing tone: A terrible fear was beginning to of resolution about her. She had been a child 
take possession of him. His daughter might be for a few moments; a child, with no power to 
grieved at this second marriage. The very step j loo.k beyond the sudden pang of that new sorrow 
which he had taken for her happiness might cause j which had come to her. She was a woman now, 
her loving nature pain and sorrow. In the utter j able to rise superior to her sorrow in the strength 
cowardice of his affection he trembled at the , of her womanhood. 

thought of causing his darling any distress in the j 'I won't be cruel, papa,' she said; 'I was sel,- 
present, even for her future welfare, even for her J fish and wicked to talk like that. If it will make 
future good; and he knew that the step he was > you happy to have another wife, papa, I'll not be 
about to take would secure that. Mary started ! sorry. No, I won't be sorry, even if your new 
from her reel iningi position, and looked up into ;. wife separates us — a little.' 
her father's face. '. 'But, my darling,' John remonstrated, '1 don't 

'You're not going to engage a governess for me, J mean that she should separate us at all. I wish 
papa?' she cried, eagerly. 'Oh, please don't, j you to have a second friend, Polly, someonewho 
We are so much better as it is. A governess \ can understand you better than I do, who may 
would keep me away from you, papa; I know she \ love you perhaps almost as well. ' Mary March- 
would. The Miss Landells, at Impley ©range,; mont shook her head; she could not realize this 
have a governess: and they only come down to possibility. 'Do you understand me, my dear:' 
dessert for half an hour, 01- go out for a drive < her father continued, earnestly. 'I want you to 
sometimes, so that they very seldom see their papa. \ have some one who will be a mother to you; and 
Lucy told me so; and they said they'd give the ; I hope — I am sure that Olivia — ' 
world to be always with their papa, as 1 am with ; Mary interrupted him by a sudden exclamation, 
you. Oh pray, pray, papa darling, don't let me that was almost like a cry of pain, 
have a governess.' ; 'Not Miss Arundel!' shjes said. 'Oh papa, it is 

The tears were in her eyes as she pleaded to j not Miss Arundel you are going to marry !' 
him. The sight of those tears made him terribly < Her father bent his head in assent, 
nervous. ij 'What is the matter with. you, Mary?' he said, 

'My own dear Polly,' he said, 'I'm not going to ; almost fretfully, as he sawVthe look of mingled 
engage a governess. I — Polly, Polly dear, you ' grief and terror in his daughter's face. 'You are 
must be reasonable. You mustn't grieve your < really quite unreasonable to-night. If I am to 
poor father. You are old enough to understand s marry at all, who should I choose for a wife? 
these things now, dear. You know what the doe- 1 Who could be better than Olivia Arundel ? Every 
tors have s^id. I may die, Polly, and leave you \ body knows how good she is. Every body talks 
!rl ' ', of her goodness.' 

alone in the world. 

She clung closely to her' father, and looked up, 
pale and trembling, as she answered him. • 

'When you die, papa, I shall die too. I could 
never, never live without you.' 

'Yes, yes, my darling, you would. You will 
live to lead a happy life, please God, and a safe 
one: but if I die, and leave you very young, very 
inexperienced, and innocent, as I may do, my 
dear, you must not be without a friend to watch 

over you, to advise, to protect you. I have thought J love her so very, very "much 

In these two sentences Mr. Marchmont made 
confession of a fact he had never himself consid- 
ered. It was not his own impulse, it was no in- 
stinctive belief in her goodness, that had led him 
to choose Olivia Arundel for his wife. He had 
been influenced solely by the reiterated opinions 
of other people. 

'I know she is very good, papa,' Mary cried; 
'/ 'but oh, why, why do you marry her? Do you 

> lniro r. a *» o i-\ irnmr trnniT miirtTi Z* 

of this long and earnestly, Polly; and I believe 
that what 1 am going to do is right.' \ 

•What you are going to do!' Mary cried, re-! 
peating her father's words, and looking at him in \ 
sudden terror. ' What do you mean, papa ? What \ 
are you going to do ? Nothing that will part us ! ; 
Oh papa, papa, you will never do any thing to 
partus?' . ■< 

'No, Polly darling,' answered Mr. Marchmont. J 
'Whatever I do I do for your sake, and for that ; 
alone. I'm going to be married, my dear.' I 

Mary burst into a low Wail, more pitiful than 
any ordinary weeping. 

'Love her!' exclaimed Mr. Marchmont, naively; 

'no, Polly dear; you know I never loved any one 

but you.' 

'Why do you marry her, then ?' 

'For your sake, Polly; for your sake.' 

'But don't, then, papa; oh pray, pray don't. I 

don't want her. 1 don't like her, I could never 

be happy with her.' 
'Mary! Mary!' 
'Yes, I know it's very wicked to say so, but it's 

true, papa; I never, never, never could be happy 

with her. I know she is good, but I don't like 

her. If I did any thing wrong, I should never 

'Oh papa, papa,' she cried, 'you never will, you > expect her to forgive me for it; I should never 
never will!' ; expect her to have mercy upon me. Don't marry 

The sound of that piteous voice for a few mo- ! her, papa; pray, pray don't marry her.' 
ments quite unmanned John Marchmont; but he '/. 'Mary,' said Mr. Marchmont, resolutely, 'this 
armed himself with a desperate courage. He de- ; is very wrong of you. I have given my word, mv 
termined not to be influenced by this child to re- } dear, and I can not recall it. I believe that I am 
linquish the purpose which he believed was to \ acting for the best. You must not be' childish 
achieve her future welfare. i now, Mary. You have been my comfort ever 

'Mary, Mary dear,' he said, reproachfully, 'this } since you were a baby,; you mustn't make me un- 
is very cruel of you. Do you think I haven't i happy now.' 

consulted your happiness before my own? Do) Her father's appeal went straight to her heart, 
you think I shall lore you less because I take this > Yes, she had been his help and comfort since her 
step for your sake? You are very cruel to me, ! earliest infancy, and she was not unused to self- 
Mary\' ' j sacrifice; why should she fail him now? Shehad 

The little girl rose from her kneeling attitude, j read of martyrs, patient and holy, creatures, to 
and stood before her father, with the tears stream- { whom suffering was glory; she would be a martyr, 


if need were, for his sake. She would stand { otherwise than unhappy in the knowledge of his 
steadfast amidst the blazing fagots, or walk un- 1 darling's grief. 

flinchingly across the white-hot plowshare; for) I do not believe that any man or woman is ever 
his sake, for his sake. . : : suffered to take any fatal step upon the roadway 

'Papa, papa,' she cried, flinging herself upon ; of life without receiving ample warning by the 
her father's neck, 'I will not make you sorry. I > way. The stumbling-blocks are placed in the 
will be good and obedient to Miss Arundel, if you j fatal path by a merciful hand? but we insist upon 
wish it.' \ groping over them, and surmounting them in our 

Mr. Marchmont carried his little girl up to her ; blind obstinacy, to reach that shadowy something 
comfortable bedchamber close at hand to his own. I beyond, which we have in our ignorance appointed 
She was very calm when she bade him good- i to be our goal. A thousand ominous whispers in 
night; and she kissed him with a smile upon her j his own breast warned John Marchmont that the 
face; but all through the long hours before the j step he considered so wise, was not a wise one: 
late winter morning Mary Marchmont lay awake, < and yet, in spite of all these subtle Warnings, in 
weeping silently and incessantly in her new sor^i spite of the ever-present reproach of his daugh- 
row; and all through the same weary hours thejter's altered face, this man, who was too weak 
master of that noble Lincolnshire mansion slept I to trust blindly in his God, went on persistently 
a fitful and troubled slumber, rendered hideous by! upon his way, trusting, with a thousand times more 
confused and horrible dreams, in which the black \ fatal blindness, in his own wisdom, 
shadow that came between him and his child, and ! He could not be content to confide his darling 
the cruel hand that thrust him forever from his i and her altered fortunes to the Providence which 
darling, were Olivia Arundel's. j had watched over her in her poverty, and shel- 

But the morning light brought relief to John i tered her from every harm. He could not trust 
Marchmont and his child. Mary arose with the I his child to the mercy of G.od, but he cast her 
determination to submit patiently to her father's j upon the love of Olivia Arundel. 
choice, and to conceal from him all traces of her j A new life began for Mary Marchmont after 
foolish .and unreasoning sorrow. 5ohn awoke i the quiet wedding at Swampington Church. The 
from troubled dreams to believe, in the wisdom of; bride and bridegroom went upon a brief honey- 
the step he had taken, and to take comfort from i moon excursion far away among snow-clad Scot- 
the thought that in the far-away future his daugh- > tish mountains and frozen streams, upon whose 
ter would have reason to thank and bless him for ! bloomless margins poor John shivered dismally, 
the choice he had made. „ ! I fear that Mr. Marchmont, having been, by the 

So the few days before the marriage passed ! hard pressure of poverty, compelled to lead a 
away — miserably short days, that flitted by with j Cockney life for the better half of his existence, 
terrible speed; and the last day of all was made had but slight relish for the grand and sublime in 
still more dismal by the departure of Edward J nature. I do not think that he looked at the ru- 
Arundel, who left Marchmont Towers to go to. J ined walls which had once sheltered Macbeth and 
Dangerfield Park, whence he was most likely to] his strong-minded partner with all the enthusiasm 
start once more for India. j which might have been expected of him. He had 

Mary felt that her narrow world of lova was I but ° ne i( *ea about Macbeth, and he was rather ■ 
indeed crumbling away from her. Edward was 1 S 1 ?? to get out of the neighborhood associated 
lost, and to-morrow her father would belong to Wlth the warlike Thane; for his memories of the 
another. Mr. Marchmont dined at the Rectory ' P ast P res f n ted King Duncan's murderer as a very 
upon that last evening; for there were settlements j sternal - uncompromising gentleman, who was 
to be signed and other matters to be arranged;! utterly intolerant of banners held awry, or turned, 
and Mary Was alone— quite alone— weeping over '• wlth the , blank and "gnoble side toward the audi- 
her lost happiness. ' ence > ano - wn o objected vehemently to a violent 

'This would never have happened,' she thought, I ^ °. f coughing on the part of any one of his guests 
'if we hadn't come to Marchmont Towers? t | during the blank Barmecide least of pasteboard 
wish papa had never had the fortune; we were so and V utc . h metal with which he was wont to en- 
happy in Oakley Street— so very happy. I tertain them. No; John Marchmont had had 
wouldn't mind a bit being poor again if I could 1 ul l e e , no ugh of Macbeth, and rather wondered 
be always with papa.' at the hot enthusiasm of other red-nosed tourists, 

. T ,„ , JL.\ t u ui x , ,• apparently indifferent to the frosty weather. 
Mr. Marchmont had not been able to make him- *i fea r t&at the master of Marchmont Towers 
self quite comfortable in his mind, after that un- would have pre f err ed Oakley Street, Lambeth, to 
pleasant interview with Ins daughter in which he Princes stn T et Edinburgh/ for the nipping and 
had broken to her the news of his approaching airs of tb ' e modern ^ near]y ^^ him 

marriage. Argue with himself as he might upon ac * oss the glilf between the new town and tho 
the. advisability of the step he was about to ta^e j old . A visi b t to the Calton Hm duced an £ 
he could not argue away the fact that he had tack of that chronic h which P ha ^ so se ^{ 

grieved the child he loved so intensely He could tormented the weak -kneld supernumerary in the 
not blot away from h, 3 memory the pitiful aspect draughty corridors of Drury bane. Melrose and 
of her terror-stricken /ace as she had turned ,t Ubbotsford fatigued this poor feeble tourist he 
toward him when he uttered the nante of Ohvia U-:«j *~ u_ :_.—?... n • ., F . . wuusi, iie 


No ; he had grieved and distressed her. The 
future might reconcile her to that grief, perhaps, 
as a by gone sorrow which she had been allowed 
to suffer for her own ultimate advantage. But the 
future was a long way off; and in the mean time 
there was Mary's altered face, calm and resigned, 
but bearing upon it a settled look of sorrow, very 
close at hand; and John Marchmont could not be 

tried to be interested in the stereotyped round of 
associations beloved by other travelers , but, he had 
a weary craving for rest, which was stronger than 
any hero-worship; and he discovered, before long 
that he had done a very foolish thing in coming 
to Scotland in December and January, without 
having consulted his physician as to the propriety 
of such a step. r J 

But above all personal inconvenience, above all 
personal suffering, there was one feeling ever pres- 


ent in his heart— a sick yearning for the little girl; least faithfully to perform that portion of her 
he had left behind him; a mournful longing to be Stow; and on the night before her loveless bridal 
back with his child. Already Mary's sad fore- ;she had groveled— white, writhing, mad, and des- 
bodings had been in some way realized; already iperate— upon the ground, and had plucked out 
hisnew wife had separated him, unintentionally, : of her lacerated heart her hopeless love for 
of course, from his daughter.. The aches and > another man. 

pains he endured in the bleak Scottish atmosphere j Yes; she had done this. Another woman might 
reminded him too forcibly of the warnings he had ; have spent the bridal eve in vain tears and lamea- 
received from his physicians. He was seized 'stations, in feeble prayers, and such weak strug- 
with a panic almost when he remembered his own ' gles as might have been evidenced by the destruc- 
imprudence. What if he had needlessly curtailed J tion of a few letters, a tress of hair, some fra- 
the short span of his life ! What if he were to ' ; gile foolish tokens of a wasted love. She would 
die soon; before Olivia had learned to love her 'have burned five out of six letters, perhaps— that 
step-daughter; before Mary, had grown affection- J helpless, ordinary sinner— and would have kept 
ately familiar with her new guardian ? Again and ', the sixth, to hoard away hidden among her matri- 
again .he appealed to his wife, imploring her to/monial trousseau; she would have thrown away 
be tender to the orphan child, if he should be ; fifteen-sixteenths of that tress of hair, and would 
snatched away suddenly. have kept the sixteenth portion — one delicate curl 

'I know you will love her by-and-by, Olivia,' of gold, slender as the thread by which hershat- 
he said; 'as much as 1 do, perhaps; for you will ;' tered hopes had hung— to be wept over and kissed 
discover how good she is, how patient and unsel-;' in the days that were to come. An ordinary wo- 
fish. But just at first, and before you know her; man would have played fast and loose with love 
very well, you will be kind to her, won't you,: and duty, and so would have been true to neither. 
Olivia? She ha9 been used to great indulgence;. But Olivia Arundel did none of these things, 
she has been spoiled, perhaps; but you'll remem-: She battled with her weakness as St. George 
ber all that, and be very kind to her.' '• battled with the fiery dragon. She plucked th°. 

'I will try and do my duty,' Mrs. Marchmont;; rooted serpent from her heart, reckless as to how 
answered. '1 pray 1hat I never may do less.' ; much of that desperate heart was to be wrenched 
There was no tender yearningin Olivia March-; away with its roots. A cowardly woman would 
mont's heart toward the motherless girl. She ', have killed herself, perhaps, rather than endure 
herself felt that such a feeling was wanting, and ', this mortal agony. Olivia Arundel killed more 
comprehended that it should have been there. ;' than herself; she killed the passion that had be- 
She would have loved her step-daughter in those J come stronger than herself, 
early days if she could have done so; but-s/w could) 'Alone she did it;' unaided by any human sym- 
not — she could not. All that was tender or wo-Jpathy, or compassion, unsupported by any human 
manly in her nature had been wasted upon her) counsel, not upheld by her God; for the religion 
hopeless love for Edward Arundel. The utter ', she had made for herself was a hard creed, and 
wreck of that small freight of affection had left J the many words' of tender comfort which must 
her nature warped and stunted, soured, disap-/ have been familiar to her, were unremembered 
pointed, unwomanly. / in that long night of anguish. 

How was she to love this child, this fair-haired,/ It «vas the Roman's stern endurance, rather 
dove-eyed girl, before whom woman's life, with;! than the meek faithfulness of the Christian, which 
all its natural wealth of affection, stretched far ', upheld this unhappy girl under her torture. She 
away, a bright and fairy vista? How was she to i did not do this thing because it pleased her to be 
love her — she, whose black future was uncheck-l; obedient to her God. She did not do it because 
ered by one ray of light, who stood dissevered / she believed in the mercy of Him who inflicted 
from the past, alone in the dismal, dreamless m,o- / the suffering, and looked forward hopefully, even 
notony of the present? •; amidst her passionate grief, to the day when she 

'No)' she thought, 'beggars and princes can /should better comprehend that which she now saw 
never love each other. When this girl and I are; so darkly. No; she fought the-terrible light, and 
equals — when she, like me, stands alone upon a / she came forth out of it a conqueror, by reason 
barren rock, far out amidst the waste of waters,; of her own indomitable power of suffering, by 
with not one memory to hold her to the past, treason of her own extraordinary strength of will, 
with not one hope to lure her onward to the fu- ; But she did conquer. If her weapon was the 
ture, with nothing but the black sky above and ; classic sword and not the Christian cross, she was 
the black waters around — then we may grow fond / nevertheless a conqueror. When she stood before 
of each other. ' ) the altar and gave her hand to John Marchmont, 

But always more or less steadfast to the stand-/ Edward Arundel was dead to her. The fatal 
ard she had set up for herself, Olma Marchmont /habit of looking at him as the one centre of her 
intended to do her duty to her step-daughter. — / nart-ow life, was cured. In all her Scottish wan- 
She had notfailed in otherduties, though no glim-; derings, her thoughts never once went back to 
mer of love had brightened them, no natural affec-/ him; though a hundred chance words and associ- 
tion had made them pleasant. Why should she ; ations tempted her, though. a thousand memories 
fail in this ? ) assailed her, though some trick of his face in the 

If this belief in her own power should appear /faces of other people, though some tone of his 
to be somewhat arrogant, let it be remembered / voice in the voices of others perpetually offered 
that she had set herself hard tasks before now, / to entrap her. No; she was steadfast. 
and had performed them. Would the new fur- j Dutiful as a wife as she had been dutiful as a 
nace through which she was to pass be more ter- J daughter, she bore with her husband when his 
rible than the old fires ? She had gone to God's / feeble health made him a wearisome companion, 
altar with a man for whom she had no more love ; She waited upon him when pain made him fret- 
than she felt for the lowest or most insignificant, Jful, and her duties became little less arduous than 
of the miserable sinners in her father's flock. She ; those of a hospital-nurse. When, at the bidding 
had sworn to honor and obey him, meaning at? of the Scotch- physician who had been called in 


at Edinburgh, John Marchmont turned home- } and turmoil of a troubled life, unsullied and un- 
ward, traveling slowly and resting often on the / lessened, to her grave. She was cheated and 
way, his wife was more devoted to him than his / imposed upon, robbed and lied to, by people 
experienced servant, more watchful than the best/ who loved her, perhaps, while they wronged 
trained sick-nurse. She recoiled from nothing, / her — for to know her was to love her. She was 
she neglected nothing; she gave him full measure / robbed systematically by a confidential servant 
of the honor and' obedience which she had prom- / for years, and for years refused to believe those 
ised upon her wedding-day. And when she / who told her of his delinquencies. She could 
reached Marchmont Towers upon a dreary eve- / not believe that people were wicked. To the 
ning in January, she passed beneath the solemn / day of her death she had faith in the scoundrels 
portal of the western front, carrying in her heart /and scamps who had profited by her sweet com- 
the full determination to hold as steadfastly to the 'passion and untiring benevolence; and indig- 
other half of her bargain, and to do her duty to ^nantly defended them against those who dared to 
her step-child. ' ) sa y that they were any thing more than unfortu- 

Mary ran out of the western drawing-room to ^nate. To go to her was to go to a never-failing 
welcome her father and his wife. She had cast / fountain of love and tenderness. To know her 
off her black dresses in honor of Mr. March- /goodness was to understand the goodness of God; 
mont's marriage, and she wore some soft, silken 'for her love approached the Infinite, and might 
fabric, of a pale shimmering blue, which con- \ have taught a skeptic the possibility of Divinity, 
trasted exquisitely with her soft flaxen hair and / Threescore years and ten of worldly experience 
her fair tender face. She uttered a cry of min- / left her an accomplished lady, a delightful com- 
gled alarm and sorrow when she saw her father, / panion, but in guilelessness a child, 
and perceived the change that had been made/ So Mary Marchmont, trusting implicitly in 
in his looks by the northern journey; but she / those she loved, submitted to her father's will, 
checked herself at a warning glance from her /and prepared to obey her step-mother. The 
step-mother, and bade that dear father welcome, /new life at the Towers began very peacefully; a 
clinging about him with an almost desperate / perfect harmony reigned in the quiet household, 
fondness. She greeted Olivia gently and re- /Olivia took the reins of management with so 
spectfully. /little parade that the old, housekeeper who had 

_' I will try to be very good, mamma,' she /long been paramount in the Lincolnshire man- 
said, as she took the passive hand of the lady /sion, found herself superseded before she knew 
who had come to rule at Marchmont Towers. / where she was. It was Olivia's nature to govern. 
'I believe you will, my dear,' Olivia an- / Her strength of will asserted itself almost uncon- 
swered, kindly. /sciously. She took possession of Mary March- 

She had been startled a little as Mary ad-/montas she had taken possession of her school- 
dressed her by that endearing corruption of the / children at Swampington, making her own laws 
holy word mother. The child had been so long l i for the government of their narrow intellects, 
motherless, that she felt little of that acute an^ / She planned a routine of study that was actually 
guish which some orphans suffer when they have / terrible to the little girl, whose education had 
to look up in a strange face and say ' mamma.'/ hitherto been conducted in a somewhat slipslop 
She had taught herself the lesson of resignation, / manner by a weakly-indulgent father. She came 
and she was prepared to accept this stranger as £ between Mary and her one amusement — the 
her new mother, and to look up to her and obey / reading of novels. The half-bound romances 
her henceforward. No thought of her future <; were snatched ruthlessly from this young de- 
position as sole pwner of Marchmont Towers / vourer of light literature, and sent back to the 
ever crossed her mind, womanly as that mind /shabby circulating library at Swampington. 
had become in the sharp experiences of poverty. / Eveo the gloomy old oak book-cases in the li- 
lf her father had told her that he had cut off the/ brary at the Towers, and the Abbotsford edition 
entail, and settled Marchmont Towers upon his / of the Waverley novels, were forbidden to poor 
new wife, I think she would have submitted/ Mary; for though Sir Walter Scotts's morality is 
meekly to his will, and would have seen no in- / irreproachable, it will not do for a young lady to 
justice in the act. She loved him blindly and / be weeping over* Lucy Ashton or Amy Robsart 
confidingly. Indeed, she could only love after /when she should be consulting her terrestrial 
one fashion. The organ of veneration must/ globe, and informing herself as to the latitude 
have been abnormally developed in Mary March- / and longitude- of the Fiji islands. 
mont's head. To believe that any one she loved/ So a round of dry and dreary lessons began 
was otherwise than perfect, would have been, in / for poor Miss Marchmont, and her brain grew 
her creed,. an infidelity against love. Had any / almost dazed under that continuous and pelting 
one told her that Edward Arundel was n,ot emi- / shower of hard facts which many worthy people 
nently qualified for the post of General-in-Chief > consider the one sovereign method of education, 
of the Army of the Indus; or that her father > I have said that her mind was far in advance of 
could by any possible chance be guilty of a fault ! her years; Olivia perceived this, and set her 
or folly, she would have recoiled in horror from \ tasks in advance of her mind, in order that the 
the treasonous slanderer. \ perfection attained by a sort of steeple-chase of 

A dangerous quality, perhaps, this quality of J instruction might not be lost to her. If Mary 
guilelessness which thinketh no evil, which can jj learned difficult lessons with surprising rapidity 
not be induced to see the evil under its very! Mrs. Marchmont plied her with even yet more' 
nose. But surely, of all the beautiful and pure i difficult lessons, thus keeping the spur perpetu- 
things upon this earth, such blind confidence is < ally in the side of this heavily-weighted racer on 
the purest and most beautiful. I knew a lady, I the road to learning. But it must not be thoujrht 
dead syid gone — alas for this world, which could ; that Olivia willfully tormented or oppressed her 
ill afford to lose so good a Christian !— who car-! step-daughter. It was not so. In all this John 
ried this trustfulness of spirit, this utter inca-j Marchmont's second wife implicitly believed that 
pacity to believe in wrong, through all the strife \ she was doing her duty to the child committed 


to her care. She fully believed that this dreary J yellow sand had little by little grown narrower 
routine of education was wise and right, and < and narrower. The dark and cruel waters were 
would be for Mary's ultimate advantage. If she > closing in; the feeble boat went dpwn into the 
caused Miss Marchmont to get up at abnormal i darkness; and Mary stood alone, with her dead 
hours on bleak wintry mornings, for the purpose -father's hand clasped in hers — the last feeble 
of wrestling with a difficult variation by Hertz J Jink which bound her to the Past — looking 
or Schubert, she herself rose also and sat shiver- f blankly forward to an unknown Future, 
ing by the piano, counting the time of the music ■ 
which her step-daughter played. ; 

Whatever pains and trouble she inflicted on; "***" — u ~ 

Mary she most unshrinkingly endured herself. • 

She waded through the dismal slough of learning CHAPTER XL 

side by side with the younger sufferer : Pv-oman ] 

emperors, medieval schisms, early British manu- : the day of desolation. 

factures, Philippa of Hainault, Flemish woolen ' 

stuffs, Magna Charta, the sidereal heavens, Lu- \ Yes; the terrible day had come. Mary March - 
ther, Newton, Huss, Galileo, Calvin, Loyola, Sir ; mont roamed hither and thither in the big gaunt 
Robert Walpole, Cardinal YVolsey, conchology, j rooms, up anijl down the long dreary corridors, 
Arianism in the Early Church, trial by jury, white and ghostlike in her mute anguish, while 
Habeas Corpus, zoology, Mr. Pitt, the American ' the undertaker's men were busy in her father's 
war, Copernicus, Confucius, Mohammed, Harvey, | chamber, and while John's widow sat in the 
Jenner, Lycurgus, and Catherine of Aragon; ' study below, writing business letters, and making 
through a very diabolical dance of history, { all necessary arrangements for the funeral, 
science, theology, philosophy, and instruction of< In those early days no one attempted to com- 
all kinds, did this devoted priestess lead her hap- 'i fort the orphan. 'There was something more 
less victim, struggling onward toward that dis-| terrible than the loudest grief in the awful quiet 
tant altar at which Pallas Athene waited, pale i of the girl's anguish. The wan eyes, looking 
and inscrutable, to receive a new disciple. ; wearily out of a white haggard face, that seemed 

But Olivia Marchmont did not mean to be j drawn and contracted as if by some hideous 
unmerciful; she meant to be good to her step- ) physical torture, were tearless. Except the one 
daughter. She did not love her; but, on the ' long wail of despair which had burst from her 
other hand, she did not dislike her. Her feel- Hips in the awful moment of her father's death- 
ings were simply negative. Mary understood j agony, no cry of sorrow, no utterance of pain, 
this, and the submissive obedience she rendered ; had given relief to Mary Marchmont's suffering, 
to her step-mother was untempered by affection, i She suffered, and was still. She shrank away 
So, for nearly two years these two people led a ! from all human companionship; she seemed 
monotonous life, unbroken by any more impor- j specially to avoid the society of her step-mother, 
tant event than a dinner-party at Marchmont J She locked the door of her room upon all who 
Towers, or a brief visit to Harrowgate or Scar- ' would have intruded oh her, and flung herself 
borough. \ upon the bed, to lie there in a dull stupor for 

This monotonous existence was not to go on f hour after hour. But when the twilight was 
forever. The fatal day, so horribly feared by j gray in the desolate corridors, the wretched girl 
John Marchmont, was creeping closer and closer, j wandered out into the gallery on which her 
The sorrow which had been shadowed in every \ father's room opened, and hovered near that 
childish dream, in every childish prayer, came at { solemn death-chamber — fearful to go in, fearful 
last; and Mary Marchmont was left an orphan, j to encounter the watchers of the dead, lest they 
Poor John had never quite recovered the* ef- should torture her by their hackneyed expressions 
fects of his winter excursion to Scotland; neither of sympathy, lest they should agonize her by 
his wife's devoted nursing, nor his physician's their commonplace talk of the lost, 
care, could avail forever; and late in the autumn ( Once during that brief interval, while the 
of the second year of his rnarriage he sank ! coffin still held terrible tenancy of the death- 
slowly and peacefully enough as regards physical j chamber, the girl wandered in the dead of the 
suffering, but not without bitter grief of mind. night, .when all but the hired watchers were 
In vain Hubert Arundel talked to him : in vain .; asleep, to the broad landing of the oaken stair- 
did he himself pray for faith and comfort in this ; case, and into a deep recess formed by an em- 
dark hour of trial. He could not bear to leave ! bayed window that opened over the great stone 
his child alone in the world. In the foolishness ( porch which sheltered the principal western en- 
of his love he would have trusted in the strength ' trance to Marchmont Towers, 
of his own arm to shield her in the battle ; he > The window had been left open; for even in 
could not trust her hopefully to the arm of God. J the bleak autumn weather the atmosphere of the 
He prayed for her night and day, during the last } great house seemed hot arid oppressive to its 
week of his illness; while she was praying pas- j living inmates, whose spirits were weighed down 
sionately, almost madly, that he might be spared ; by a vague ^sense of something akin to terror of 
to her, or that she might die with ffim. Better (the Awful Presence in that Lincolnshire man- 
for her, according to all mortal reasoning, if she ' sion. Mary had wandered to this open window, 
had. Happier for her, a thousand times, if she scarcely knowing whither she went, after re- 
could have died as she wished to die, clinging to I maining for a long time on her knees by the 
her father's breast. i '', threshold of her father's room, with her head 

The blow fell at last upon those two loving ) resting against the oaken panel of the door- 
hearts. These were the awful shadows of death ; not praying; why should she pray no.w, unless 
that shut his child's face from John Marchmont's [ her prayers could have restored the deadrf She 
fading sight. His feeble arms groped here and' had come out upon the wide staircase, and Dast 
there for her in that dim and awful obscurity. i the ghostly pictured faces that looked grimly 
Yes, this was death. The narrow tract of! down upon her from the oaken wainscot against 



which they hung; she had wandered here in the > sion of by strange hands. Cromwells and Napo- 
dim gray light : there was light somewhere in > leons die, and the eapth reels for a moment, only 
the sky, but only a shadowy and uncertain glim- J to be ' alive and bold ' again in the next instant, 
mer of fading starlight or coming dawn. And ' to the astonishment of poets, and the calm satis- 
she stood now with her head resting against one J faction of philosophers; and ordinary people eat 
of the angles of the massive stone-work, looking > their breakfasts while the telegram lies beside 
out of the open window. J them upon the table, and the ink in which Mr. 

The morning which was already glimmering ' Reuter's message is recorded is still wet from the 
dimly in the eastern sky behind Marchmont * machine in Printing-House Square. 
Towers was to witness poor John's funeral.) Anguish and despair more terrible than any of 
For nearly six days Mary Marchmont had J the tortures she had felt yet took possession of 
avoided all human companionship; for nearly six j Mary Marchmont's breast. For the first time 
days she had* shunned, all human sympathy and she looked out at her own future. Until now she 
comfort. During all that time she had never j had thought only of her father's death. She had 

eaten, except when forced to do so by her step 
mother, who had visited her from time to time, 
and had insisted upon sitting by her bedside while 
s,he took the food that had been brought to her. 
Heaven knows how often the girl had slept dur- 
ing those six dreary days; but her feverish slum- 
bers had brought her very little rest or refresh- 
ment. They had brought her nothing but cruel 

despaired because he, was gone; but she had never 
contemplated the horror of her future life — a life 
in which she was to exist without him. A sudden 
agony, that was near akin to madness, seized 
upon this girl, in whose sensitive nature affection 
had alwajs had a morbid intensity. She shud- 
dered with a wild dread at the blank prospect of 
that horrible future; and as she looked out at the 

dreams, in which her father was still alive; in j wide stone steps below .the window from which 
which she felt his thin arms clasped round her i she was leaning, for the first time in her young 
week, his faint and fitful breath warm upon her j life the idea of self-destruction flashed across her 
cheek. i mind. 

A great clock in the stables struck five while \ She uttered a cry, a shrill, almost unearthly 
Mary Marchmont stood looking out of the Tudor ' cry, that was, notwithstanding, low and feeble, 
window. The broad gray flat before the house I and clambered suddenly upon the broad stone 
stretched far away, melting into the shadowy j sill of the Tudor casement. She wanted to fling 
sky. The pale stars grew paler as Mary looked ' herself down and dash her brains out upon the 
at them; the black water pools began to glimmer j stone steps below; but in the utter prostration 
faintly under the widening patch of light in the of her state, she was too feeble to do this, and 
eastern sky. The girl's senses were bewildered \ she fell backward and dropped in a heap upon 

by her suffering — her head was light and dizzy. 

Her father's death had made so sudden and 
terrible a break in her existence, that she could 
scarcely believe the world had not come to an 
end, with all the joys and sorrows of its inhabi- 

the polished oaken flooring of the recess, striking 
her forehead as she fell. She lay there uncon- 
; scious until nearly seven o'clock, when one of 
the women-servants found her, and carried her 
off to her own room, where she suffered herself 

tants. Would there be anything more after to- j to be undressed and put to bed. 
morrow? she thought; would the blank days and > Mary Marchmont did not speak until the good- 
nights go monotonously on when the story that } hearted Lincolnshire house-maid had laid her in 
had given them a meaning and, a purpose had \ ber bed, and was going away to tell Olivia of the 
come to its dismal end ? Surely not; surely, after, ) state in which she had found the,orphan girl, 
those gaunt iron gates, far away across the \ 'Don't tell my step-mother any thing about 
swampy waste that was called a park, had closed I me, Susan,' she said; 'I think I was mad last 
upon her father's funeral train, the world would > night.' 

come to an end, and there would be no more 
time or space. I think she really believed this in 
the semi-delirium into which she had fallen 
within the last hour. She believed that all would 
be over, and that she and her despair would melt : 
away into the emptiness that was to engulf the 
universe after her father's funeral. 

Then suddenly the full reality of her grief; 
flashed upon her with horrible force. She i 
clasped her hands upon her forehead, and a low 
faint cry broke from her white lips. 

It was not all over. Time and space would 
not be annihilated. The weary, monotonous, 
workaday world would still go on upon its course, 
Nothing would be changed. The great gaunt. 
stone mansion would still stand, and the dull" 
machinery of its interior would still go on : the 
same hours; the same customs; the same inflexi- \ 
ble routine. John Marchmont would be carried 
out of the house that had owned him master, to 
lie in the dismal vault under Kemberling Church; 
and the world in which he had made so little stir ' 
would go on without him. The easy-chair in 
which he had been wont to sit would be wheeled 
away from its corner by the fire-place in the 
western drawing-room. The papers in his study 
would be sorted, and put away, or taken posses- 

This speech frightened the house-maid, and she 
went straight to the widow's room. Mrs. March- 
mont, always an, early riser, had been up and 
dressed for some time, and went at once to look 
at her step-daughter. 

She found Mary very calm and reasonable. 
There was no trace of bewilderment or delirium 
now in her manner; and when the principal 
doctor of Swampington came, a couple of hours 
afterward, to look at the young heiress, he de- 
clared that there was no cause for any alarm 
The young lady was sensitive, morbidly, sensi- 
tive, he said, and must be kept very quiet for a 
few days, and watched by some one whose pres- 
ence would not annoy her. If there, was any 
g-irlof her own age whom she had ever shown 
a predilection for, that girl would be the nttent 
companion for her just now. After a few davs 
it would be advisable that she should have change 
o air and change of scene. She must not be 
allowed to brood continuously on her father's 
death 1 he doctor repeated this last injunction 
more than once. It was most important that she 
should not give way too perpetually to her grief. 

So Mary Marchmont lay in her darkened room 
while her father's funeral train was moyingslowly 
away from the western entrance. It happS 



that Mary's apartments looked out into the quad- 
rangle, and she heard none of the subdued sounds 
which attended the departure of that solemn pro- 
cession. In her weakness she had grown sub- 
missive to the will of others. She thought this 
feebleness and exhaustion gave warning of her 
approaching death. Her prayers would be granted 
after all. This anguish and despair would be 
but of brief duration, and she would ere long be 
carried to the vault under Kemberling Church, 
to lie beside her father in the black stillness of 
that dreadful place. 

. Mrs. Marchmont strictly obeyed the doctor's 
injunctions. A girl of seventeen, the daughter 
of a small tenant farmer near the Towers, had 
been a special favorite with Mary, who was not 
apt to make friends among strangers. This girl, 
Hester Pollard, was sent for, and came, willingly 
and gladly, to watch her young patroness. She 
brought her needle-work with her, and sat near 
the window, busily employed, while Mary lay 
shrouded by the pure white curtains of the bed. 
All active services necessary for the comfort of 
the invalid were performed by Olivia or her own 
special attendant — an old servant who had lived 
with the Rector ever since his daughter's birth, 
and had only left him to follow that daughter to 
Marchmont Towers after her marriage. So 
Hester Pollard had nothing to do but to keep very 
quiet, and patiently await the time when Mary 
might be disposed to talk to her. The farmer's 
daughter was a gentle, unobtrusive creature, very 
well fitted for the duty imposed upon her. 


Olivia Marchmont sat in her late husband's!; 
study while John's funeral train was moving ^ 
slowJy along under the misty October sky. A / 
long stream of carriages followed the stately / 
hearse, with its four black horses, and its volu-/ 
minous draperies of rich velvet, and nodding/ 
plumes that were damp and heavy with the au-/ 
tumn atmosphere. The unassuming master of/ 
Marchmont Towers had won for himself a q'uiet/ 
popularity among the simple, country gentry,!" 
and the best families in Lincolnshire .had sent/ 
their chiefs to do honor to his burial, or at tht / 
least their empty carriages to represent them at / 
that mournful ceremonial. Olivia sat in her? 
dead husband's favorite chamber. Her head i 
lay back upon the cushion of the roomy morocco-/ 
covered arm-chair in which he had so often sat. '/ 
She had been working hard that morning, and t 
indeed- every morning since John MarchmOnt's/ 

death, sorting and arranging papers, with the aid 

of Richard Paulette, the Lincoln's Inn solicitor, 
and James Gormby, the land-steward. Sheknew 
that she had been left sole guardian of her step- \ 
daughter, and executrix to her husband's will; J 
and she had lost no time in making herself ac- \ 
quainted with the business details of the estate, 
;ind the full nature > of the responsibilities in- 
trusted to her. 

She was resting now. She had done all that 
could be done until after the reading of the will. 
She had attended to her step-daughier. She had 
stood in one of the windows of the western 
drawing-room, watching the departure of the 
funeral cortege; and now she abandoned herself 

for a brief space to that idleness which was so 
unusual to her. 

A fire burned in the low grate at her feet, and 
a rough cur — half shepherd's dog, half Scotch 
deer-hound, who had been fond of John, but 
was not fond of Olivia— lay at the further ex- 
tremity of the hearth-rug, watching her suspi- 

Mrs. Marchmont's personal appearance had 
not altered during the two years of her married 
life. Her face was thin and haggard, but it 
had been thin and haggard before^ her marriage. 
And yet no one could deny that 'the face was 
handsome, and the features beautifully chiseled. 
But the gray eyes were hard and cold, the line 
of the faultless eyebrows gave a stern expression 
to the countenance; the thin lips were rigid and 
compressed. The face wanted both light and 
color. A sculptor copying it line by line, would 
have produced a beautiful head. A painter 
must have lent his own glowing tints if he 
wished to represent Olivia Marchmont as a lovely 

Her pale face looked paler, and her dead black 
hair blacker, against the blank whiteness of her 
widow's cap. Her mourning dress clung closely 
to her tall, slender figure. She was little more 
than twenty-five, but she. looked a woman of 
thirty. It had been her misfortune to look older 
than she was from a very early period in her 

She had not loved her husband when she 
married him, nor had she ever felt for him that 
love which in most womanly natures grows out 
of custom and duty. It was not in her nature 
to love. Her passionate idolatry of her boyish 
cousin had been the one solitary affection that 
had ever held a place in her cold heart. All the 
fire of her nature had been concentrated in this 
one folly, this one passion, against which only 
heroic self-tortures had been able to prevail. 

Mrs. Marchmont felt n'o grief, therefore, at 
her husband's loss. She had felt the shock of 
his death, and the painful oppression of his dead 
presence in the house. She had faithfully nursed 
him through many illnesses; she had patiently 
tended him until the very last; she had done her 
duty. And now, for the first time, she had lei- 
sure to contemplate the past, and look forward to 
the future. 

So far this woman had fulfilled the task which 
she had taken upon herself; she had been true 
and loyal to the vow she had made before God's 
altar, in the church of Swampington. And now 
she was free. No, not quite free; for she had a 
heavy burden yet upon her hands — the solemn 
charge of her step-daughter during the girl's mi- 
nority. But as regarded marriage vows and 
marriage-ties she was free. 

She was free to love Edward Arundel again. 

The thought came upon her with a rush 
and an impetus wild and strong as the sudden 
uprising of a whirlwind, or the loosing of a moun- 
tain torrent that had long been bound. She was 
a wife no longer. It was no longer a sin to think 
of the bright-haired soldier, fighting far away. 
She was free. When Edward returned to Eng- 
land by-and-by he would find her free once more; 
a young widow — young, handsome, and rich 
enough to be no bad prize for a younger son. He 
would come back and find her thus; and then — 
and then — 

She flung one of her clenched hands up into 
the air, and struck it on her forehead in a sudden 



paroxysm ©f rage. What then ? Would he loye ( again, and crush out my heart once more under 
, ler any better then than he had loved.her two years j the brazen wheels? He will never love me '.'' 
fc'igo? No; he would treat her with the same cruel She writhed; ibis self-sustained and- resojijte 
^difference, the "same commonplace cousinly woman writhed in her anguish as- she uttered 
friendliness with which he bad mocked and tor- those five words, 'He will never love me!' 
bared her before.. Oh, shame! Oh, misery ! Was She knew that they were true; that of all the 
there no pride an women, that there could be one changes that Time could bring to pass, it would 
among them fallen so low as her; ready to grovel never bring such a change as that. There was 
at. the feet of a fair-haired boy, and to cry aloud, not one element of sympathy between herself 
I'Love^me, love me! or be pitiful, and strike me. and the young soldier; they had not one thought 
dead!' Uncommon. Nay, more; there was an absolute 

^Better that John Marchmont had lived forever, ( antagonism between them, which, in spite of her 
better that Edward Arundel should die far away ) love, Olivia fully recognized. Over the gulf that 
upon some Eastern battle-field, before some > separated them no coincidence of thought or 
Afghan fortress, than that he should return to j> fancy, no sympathetic emotion, ever stretbhed 
iinflict upon her the ^ame tortures she had writhed '< its electrjc chain to draw them together in mys- 
under two years before. j terious union? They stood aloof, divided by the 

'God grant that he may never come back !' j width of an intellectual universe. The woman 
she thought. 'God grant that he may marry i knew this, and hated herself, for her folly, scorn- 
outyonder, and live and die there. God kee'p j in.g alike her love and its object; but her love 
him from me forever and forever in tliis weary j was not the less because of her scorn. It was a 
world!' J madness, an isolated madness, which, stood alone 

And yet in the next moment, with the incon- j in her soul, and fought for' mastery over her 
sistency which is thft chief attribute of that mad- ) better aspirations, her wiser thoughts. We are 
ness we call love, her thoughts wandered away t all familiar witlj strange stories of wise and great 
dreamily into visions of the luture; and she pic- ( minds which have been ndden by some hobgob- 
tured Edward Arundel back again at Swamping- j Jin fancy, someone horrible monomania, 
ton, at Marchmont Towers. Her soul burst its Had Olivia Marchmont lived a couple of cen- 
ho'nds and expanded, and drank in the sunlight of tunes before, she would have gone .straight to 
gladness, and she dared to think that it might be J the nearest old crone, and would have boldly ac- 
so — there might be happiness yet for her. He eused the wretched woman of being the author 
had been a boy when he went back to India — [ of her misery. 

careless, indifferent. He would return a man — j 'You harbor a' black cat and other noisome 
graver, wiser, altogether changed; changed so vermin, and you prowl about muttering to your- 
much as to love her, perhaps. ! self o 5 nights,' she might have said. ' You have 

She knew that, at least, no rival had shut her ) been seen to gather herbs, and you make strange 
cousin's heart against her, when and she he had ; and uncanny signs with your palsied old- fingers, 
been together two years before. He had been '■, The black cat is the devil, your colleague; and 
indifferent to her; but he had been indifferent the rats under your tumble-down roof are his 
to others also. There was comfort in that recol- 1 imps, your associates It is you who have in- 
lection. She had questioned him very sharply ', sfil led this horrible madness into my soul; for it 
as> to his life in India and at Dangerfield, and , could not come of itself.-' ' 

she had discovered r»o trace of any tender mem- ; And Olivia Marchmont, .being resolute and 
ory of the past, no hint of a cherished dream of; strcng-jriinded, would not have rested until her 
the future. His heart had been empty : a. boy- tormentor had paid the penalty of her foul work 
ish, unawakened heart; a temple in which the N ; at a stake in the nearest market-place, 
niches were untenanted, the shrine unhallowed}, And, indeed, sonie of our madnesses are so 
by the goddess. * , mad, some of our follies are so foolish, that we 

Olivia Marchmont thought of these things. ' might almost be forgiven if we believed that 
For a few moments, if only for -a few moments, there was a company of horrible crones meeting, 
she abandoned herself to such thoughts as these. \ somewhere on an invisible Brocken, and making 
She let herself go. She released the stern hold incantations for , our •les'.ruction. Take up a 
which it was her habit to keep upon her own 
mind; and in those bright moments of delicious 
abandonment the glorious sunshine streamed in 
upon her narrow life, and visions of a possible 
future expanded before her like a fairy pano- 
rama, stretching away into realms of vague light 
and splendor. It 

Buf, again, in the next moment the magical no black abyss of vice, no hideous gulf of crirne 
panorama collapsed and shriveled away, like a •'- is biaci: or.fiideous enough to, content them? 
burning scroll: the fairy picture, whose gorgeous Olivia Marchmont mi^ht'Lave' been a good 
coloring she had looked upon with dazzled eyes, I and greot woman. ' She had all the elements of 
almost blinded with overpowering glorv. shrank ! greatness. She had genius, resolution, an in- 
into a handful of black ashes, and was gone. ,' domitable courage, an iron will, perseverance 
The woman's strong nature reasserted itself; the ; self-denial, temperance, chastity But against 
iron will rose up, ready to do battle with the '• all these qualities was set a fatal and foolish love 
looiibh heart > for a boy i h-ndsome face and frank and genial 

< rv.1. a° be < ?? olcd a seco,i a tin) V ■- !ie f '"ed. ) manner. If Edward Arundel had never eroded 
IJid 1 suner so little when 1 blotted that image J.her path, her unfettered soul might have taken 

newspaper and read its hideous revelations of 
crime and folly, and it will be scascely strange 
if you involuntarily wonder whether witchcraft 
is a dark fable of the Middle Ages, or a dreadful 
truth of the nineteenth century. Must n.ot-some 
of these miserable creatures whose stories we 
was possible; it was at least ' read be possessed; possessed by i ager, relentless 

damoiis, who lash and goad them onward, until 

out of my heart ?, Did the destruction of my the highest and. grandest flight^ but. chained 
cruel Juggernaut cost me- so small an agony that down, bound, trammeled by her love for him 
1 must needs, be rwdy to .elevate the false gqd hh4 groveled on the earth like somemilli 

earth like some maimed. ao4 



wounded eagle, who sees his fellows afar off, j my face to watch the swallows skimming by in 
hi«h in the purp/e empyrean, and loathes him- the sun, or- the ivy-leaves flapping against the 
teif for his impotence. jwall.' 

' What do I love him for?' she thought. ' Is it \ She turned from the glass with a sigh, and 
because he has blue eyes and chestrrut hair, with jwent out into a dusky corridor. The shutters of 
wandering gleams of golden light in it? Is it all the principal rooms and Ahe, windows upon 
h'ecause he has gentlemanly manners, and is easy the grand staircase were still closed'; the wide 
and plea'sant, genial and light-hearted? Is it be- hail was dark and gloomy, and drops of rain 
cause he has a dashing walk, and the air of a man {spattered every now and then upon the logs that 
of fashion? It must be for some of these attri- i smouldered on the wide old-fashioned hearto. 
butes, surelv; for I know nothing more in him. The misty October morning had heralded a wet 
Of all the things he has ever said, I can remem- J day. 
ber nothing — and 1 remember his smallest words, 
Heaven help me ! — that any sensible person 

could think worth repeating. He is brave, I 
dare say, and generous; but neitlfce'r braver nor 
more generous than other men of his rank and 

Paul Marchmont was sitting in a low easy- 
chair before a blazing fire in the western draw- 
ing-room, the red light full upon his face. It- 
was a handsome face, or perhaps, to speak more 
exactly, it was one of those faces that are gene- 
rally called ' interesting;' the features were, very 

She sat lost in such a reverie as this while her ^delicate and refined, the pale grayish-blue eyes 
dead husband was' being carried to the roomy > t were shaded by long brown lashes, and the small 
vault set apart for the owners of Marchmont < and rather feminine mouth wbs overshadowed by 
Towers and their kindred; she was absorbed in ^a slender auburn mustache, under which the rosy 
some such thoughts as these, when one of the Hint of the lips was very visible'. But it was 
grave, gray-headed old servants brought her a jfPaul Marchmont's hair which gave a peculiarity 
card upon a heavy salver emblazoned with thejto a personal appearance that might otherwise 
Marchmont arms. 'have been in no way out of the common. This 

Olivia took the card almost mechanically. > t hair, fine, silky, and luxuriant, was whiU, al- 
There are some thoughts which carry us a long ^though- its owner could not have been more 
way from the ordinary occupations of everyday ■', thirty-seven years of age. * 

•life, and it is not easy to return to the dull jog- ' The uninvited guest rose as Olivia Marchmont 
trot routine. The widow passed her left hand (entered the room, 
across her brow before she looked at the name J ' I have the, honor of speaking to my cousin's 

■; widow,' he said, with a courteous smile. 
' Yes; I am-Mrs. Marchmont.' 

inscribed upon the card in h v er right. 

' Mr. Paul Marchmont." 

She started as she read the name. Paul £ Olivia seated herse ! f near the fire. The wet 
Marchmont! She remembered what her hus- 'day was'cold and cheerless, the dark house dis- 
band had told her of this man. It was not much: /mal and chilly. Mrs. Marchmont shivered as 
for John's feelings on the subject of his cousin /she extended her long-thin hand to the blaze, 
had been- of so vague a nature that he had/ 'And you are doubtless surprised to see me 
shrunk from expounding them to his stern, prac-/ here, Mrs. Marchmont,' the artist said, leaning 
tical wife. He had told her, therefore, that ne.'upon the back of his chair in the easy attitude 
did not very much care for Paul, and that he \ of a man who means to make himself at home ; 
wished no intimacy ever to arise between the >' but believe me, that although I never took ad- 
artist and Mary; but he had said nothing more j vantage of a very friendly letter written to me 
than this. j by poor John— ' 

' The gentleman is waiting to see me, I sup-j Paul Marchmont paused for a moment, keej - 
pose?' Mrs. Marchmont said. i ing sharp v.-atch upon the widow's face; bi)t no 

'Yes, ma'am. The gentleman came to Kem- j sorrowful expression, no evidence of emotion, 

that inflexible countenance. 
I repeat, I never availed myself 

. .. . ately. Is'; of a sort of general invitation to come and shoot 

he in the drawing-room? i his partridges, or borrow money of him, or take 

'Yes, ma'am.' , ? advantage of any of those other little privileges 

The man 'bowed and left the room. Olivia i generally claimed by a man's poor relations, it 
lingered by the fire-place with her foot on the i is not to be supposed, my dear Mrs. Marchmont, 
fender, her elbow resting on the carved-oak \ that I was altogether forgetful of either March- 

■ ies, ma am. ine gentleman came to ivem-; sorrowiui exp 
berling by the 11.5 train from London, and hasj was visible in 
driven over here in one of Harris's flys ' / 'Although, j 

'.Tel! him I will come to him immediately. Is ; of a sort of ge 


'Paul Marchmont! He has come to the fu- 
neral, I suppose. And he expects to find him- 
self mentioned in the will, I dare say. J think, 
from what my husband told me, he will be dis- 
appointed in that. Paul Marchmont! If Mary 
were to die unmarried, this man or his sisters 
would inherit Marchmon,t Towers.' 

There was a looking-glass over the mantle- 
piece; a narrow, oblong glass, in an old-fash- ? field. She is married to -a surgeon who prac 
ioned cqrved-ebony frame-, whtch was inclined l i tices in that delightful town. You know Stan 
forward. Olivia looked musingly in this glass, / field, of course?' 

and smoothed the heavy bands of dead-black hail j ' No, I have never been 1 there. It is flve-and- 
under her cap. pwenty miles from here.' 

'There are people who would call me hand i 'Indeed! too far for a drive, then. Yes, my 
some,' she thought, as she looked with a mooi\ pister Jives at Stanfield. John never knew much 
frown at her image in the glass; ' and yet I have t of her in his adversity, and therefore maybe for- 
seen Edward Arundel's eyes wander away from >g.ven if he fdrgot her in his prosperity. But she 

mont Towers or its owner, my cousin, I did not 
come here, because I am a hard-working man, 
and the idleness .of a country house would have 
been ruin to me.' But I heard sometimes of my 
cousin from neighbors of his.' 

'Neighbors!' repeated Olivia, in a tone of 

' Yes-/ people- near enough to be called neigh- 
bors in the country. My sister lives at Stan- 



lid not forget him. We poor relations have ex- > There was the sound of wheels on the carriage- 
;ellent memories. The Stanfield people have so j drive before the terrace, and presently a subdued 
ittle to talk about, that it is scarcely any (voider , murmur of hushed voices in the. hall. ' Mr. Rich 

,f_ they are inquisitive about the affairs of the 
;rand country gentry round about them. I 
Beard of John through my sister, ilheard of his 
marriage through her '—he bowed to Olivia as 
be said this — 'and I wrote immediately to con- 
gratulate' him upon that happy event,' he bowed 
again here; ' and it was through Lavinia Wes- 
ton, my sister, that I heard of poor John's death, 
one day before the announcement appeared in 
the columns of the Times. I am sorry to find 
that I am too late for the* funeral. I could have 

ard Paulette, and the two medical men who had 
attended John Marchmont, had returned to t*e 
Towers for the reading of the will. Hubert 
Arundel had returned with them; but the other 
followers in the funeral train had departed to 
their several homes. The Undertaker and his 
men had made their way back to Marchmont by 
the side-entrance, and were making themselves 
very comfortable after the fulfillment of their 
mournful duties. 
The will was' to be read in the dining-room; 

wished to have paid my cousin the last tribute of j and Mr. Paulette and the clerk who had accom^ 
esteem that one man can pay another.' < panied him to Marchmont Towers were already 

' You would wish. to hear the reading of the j seated at one end of the long carved-oak table, 
will?' Olivia said, interrogatively. | busy with their papers and pens and ink, assum- 

Paul Marchmont shrugged his shoulders, with I ing an importance the occasion did not require, 
a low, careless laugh; not an indecorous laugh — j Olivia went out into the hall to speak to her 

nothing that this man did or said ever appeared j 
ill advised or out of place. The people who dis- I 
liked him were compelled to acknowledge that ! 
they disliked him unreasonably, and very much I 
on the Doctor-Fell principle; for it was, impossi- j 
ble to take objection to either his manners or his { 
actions. ' ' j 

' That important legal document can have very 
, my dear. Mts. Marchmont,' ' 


. ' You will find Mr. Marchmont's solicitor in 
the dining-room,' she said to Paul, who was 
looking at some of the old pictures on the draw- 
ing-room walls. 

A large fire was blazing in the wide grate at 
the end of the dining-room. Thet blinds had 
been drawn up. There was no longer need that 
little. interest for me, my dear, Mis. Marchmont,' j the house should be wrapped in darkness. The 
he said, gayiy. ' John can have had nothing to J Awful Presence had departed; and' such light as 
leave me. I am too well acquainted with the ! there was in the gloomy October sky was free to 
terms of my grandfather's will to v have any mer- enter the rooms which the death of one quiet, un- 

cenary hopes in coming to Marehmont-Towers. 

He stopped, and looked at Olivia's iajpassable ; 

obtrusive creature had made for a time desolate. 
There was no sound in the room but the low 
voices of the two doctors talking of their late 

4 What on earth could have induced this wo- j patient in 'under tones near the fire-place, and 
man to marry my cousin:' he thought. ' John the occasional fluttering of the papers under 
could have had very little-to leave his widow.' j the lawyer's hand.. The clerk, who sat respect- 
He played with, the jingling ornaments at his ; fully a little way behind' his master, and upon 
watch-chain, looking reflectively 'at the fire for ) the very edge of his ponderous morocco-covered 
some moments. ; chair, had been wont to giv.e John Marchmont 

' Miss Marchmont — my cousin, Mary March- ; his orders, and to lecture him for being tardy 
mont, -I should. say — bears her loss pretty well, I ' with his work a few years before, in the Lin- 

coln's Ion office. He was wondering how whe- 
ther he should find himself remembered in the 
dead man's will, to the extent of a mourning-ring 
or an old-fashioned silver snuff-box. 

Richard Paulette looked up as Olivia and her 
father entered the room, followed at a, little dis- 


Olivia shrugged her shoulders. 

' I am sorry to say that my step-daughter dis- 
plays very little Christian resignation,' she said. 

And then a spirit within her arose and whis- 
pered, with a mocking voice, ' What resigna- 
tion do you show— ycu 

Christian? Howhave o ( _ _ _....,, 

rebellious heart?' * ' j the pictures against the wainscot, and appearing, 

' My cousin is very young.,' Paul Marchmont ; as he had declared himself, very little concerned 
said, presently. < in the important business about to be transacted. 

' She was fifteen last July.' ) ' We shall want Miss Marctfmont here, if you 

'Fifteen! Very young to be the owner of j please,' Mr. Paulette said, as 1 he looked up from 
Marchmont Towers and an income of eleven his papers. 

who shou'd be so good a tance by Paul Marchmont, who walked at a lei- 
cut learned to school your j surely pace, looking at the carved doorways aDd 

thousand a year,' returned the artist. He walked 
to one of the long windows, arid drawing aside j 
the edge of the blind, looked out upon the stone 
terrace and the -.vide flats before the mansion. > 
The rain dripped and splashed upon the stone ' 
steps; the rain-drops h§ng upon the grim adorn- 
ments of the carved balustrade, soaking into 
moss-grown escutcheons and half-obliterated 
coats-of-arms. The weird willows by the pools 
far away, and a solitary poplar near the house, 
looked gaunt and blaclj against the dismal gray 

'Is it necessary that she should be present?' 
Olivia asked. 

' Very necessary.' 

' But she is ill; she is in bed.' 

* It is most important that she should be here 
when the will is read. Perhaps Mr. Bolton '— 
the lawyer looked toward one of the medical 

m r*7' W ^- Se ™ ? e wil1 be able t0 tell us 
whether Miss Marchmont can safely come down 

Mr.- Bolton, the Swampington sureeon who 

ll a K„ ed fe that ™orn S ing,le U ft^h°e n roZ 

Paul Marchmont dropped the blind, and turned with Olivia. The lawyer rose and warmed h 
ray from the gloomy- landscape with a half- hands at the' blaze, talking to Hubert Arnrirfil 
ntemptuous gesture. ' I don't know that I envy j and the London physician as he did so PI 

Jhmont, who had not been introduced to a^y 
occupied hxnuelf entirely with the picture. 


my cousin affer all,' he said; 'the place is as ! Marchmont, who had" notbeen intmriLivi' ♦„ 
dreary as Tennyson's Moated Grange.' j one, —--»•> ^— •- ■• -" ' uir °aucea to 


for a little time; and then, strolling over to the l oul the aid of a lawyer, and was only witnessed 
fire-place, fell into conversation with the three j by John's housekeeper and by Corson, the old 
gentlemen, contriving, adroitly enough, to' let > vale" a confidential servant, who had attended 
thjm know who he was. Tne lawyer looked at '■', upon Mr. Marchrnont's predecessor, 
him with some interest— a professional interest, i Richard Paulette began to read; and Mary, for 
no doubt; for Mr. Paulette had a copy. of old j the first time since she had taken her seat near 
Philip Marchrnont's will in one of the jaoanned \ the fire, lifted her eyes, and listened breath.-, 
deed-boxes, inscribed with poor John's* name. '; lessly, with faintly tremulous lips. Olivia. sat 
He knew that this easy-going, pleasant-man- , near her stepdaughter; and Paul Marchmont 
tiered, white-haired young gentleman was the < stood in a careless attitude at one corner of the 
Paul Marchmont named in that document, and j fire-place, with his shoulders resting against the 
stood next in succession to Mary. Mary might ! massive oaken chimney-piece. The dead man's 
die unmarried, and it was as we\lAo be friendly j will ran thus : » 1 

and civil to a man who was at least a possible i ' ] John Marchmont of Marchmont Towens 
client. .declare this to be my last will and testament 

The four gentlemen stood upon the broad ; Being persuaded that my end is approaching 'I 
Turkey hearth-rug for some time talking of the i feel my dear little daughter Mary will be left 
dead man, the wet weather, the cold autumn, i unprotected by any natural guardian My 
the dearth of .partridges, and other very safe j young friend Edward Arundel I had hoped when 
topics of conversation. Olivia. and the Swamp- ; in my. poverty would have been a friend and ad- 
ington doctor were a long time absent, and j viser to her if not a protector but her tender 
Richard, Paulette, who stood with his back to; years and his position in life must place -this 
the fire, glanced' every now and then toward the • now out of the question and I may die before a 
door. / fond hope which 1* have long cherished can be 

It opened at last, and Mary Ivlarchmont came.; realized and which may now never be realized 
into the rooa, followed by her step-mother. / I now desire to make my will more particularly 

Paul Marchmont turn«d at the sound of the; to provide as well as I am permitted' for the 
opening of that ponderous mansion-door, and; guardianship and care of my dear little Mary 
for the first time saw his second cousin, the/ during her minority Now I will and desire 
young mistress of Marchmont Towers. He/ that my wife Olivia shall act as guardian adviser 
started as he locked at her, though with a / and mother to my dear little Mary and that she 
scarcely perceptible movement, and a change/ place herself under the charge and guardian- 
came over his face. The feminine pinky hue I; ship of my wife And as she will be an heiress 
in his, cheeks faded suddenly and left them /of very considerable property I would wish her 
white. It had been a peculiarit}' of Paul March-/ to be guided by the advice of my said wife in 
mont's.from. his boyhood, always to turn pale ! the management of her property and particularly 
with eye,ry acute emotion. { in the choice of a husband As my dear little 

What was the emotion which had now blanched ? Mary Will be amply provided for on my death I 
his cheeks? Was lie thinking, Sis. this fragile / make no provision for her by this my will but I 
creature the mistress of Marchmont Towers ? is /direct my executrix to present to her a diamond 
this frail life all that siinds between me and /ring which J wish her to wear in memory of her 
eleven thousand a year?' , /loving father so that she may always have mc 

.The life which shone out of that feeble earthly / in her thoughts and particularly of these my 
tabernacle did indeed seem a fl-ai! and fitful / wishes as to her future life until she shall be of 
flame, likely to be extinguished by any rude { age and capable of acting on her own judgment 
breath from the course outer world. Mary ; I also request my executrix to present my young 
Marchmont was deadly pale; black shadows en-/ friend Edward Arundel also with a diamond 
circled her wistful hazel eyes. Her st'uf new / ring cf the value of at least one hundred guineas 
mourning-dress, -with its heavy trimmings of , as a slight tribute of the regard and esteem 
lustreless crape, seemed to hang loose upon her : which I have ever entertained for him 
slender figure; her soft brown hair, damp with;) As to all the property as well real as personal 
the water with which her burning forehead had 'over which I may at the time of my death have 
been bathed, fell in straight disordered tresses ! any control and capable of claiming or bequeath- 
about her shoulders. Eer eyes were tearless, :ing I give devise and bequeath to my wife Olivia 
her small' mouth terribly compressed. The .absolutely And I appoint my said wife sole 
rigidity of her face betokened the struggle by ; executrix of this my will and guardian of my 
which 1 her sorrow was repressed. She sat down ■; dear little Mary. ' 

in an easy-chair which Olivia indicated to her,;! There were a few very small legacies, a mourn- 
and with her hands lying on the white handker- Jiflg ring to the expectant clerk; and this was all. 
chief in her lap, and her swollen eyelids droop- i Paul Marchmont had been quite right. Nobody 
ing over her eyes, waited for the reading of her > could be less interested than himself in this will, 
father's will. It would be the last, the very last, j But he was apparently very much interested 
she would' ever hear of that dear fathers words. J in John's widow and "daughter. He tried to 
She remembered' this, and was ready to listen j enter into conversation with Mary; but the girl's 
attentively; but she remembered nothing else. [ piteous manner seeised to implore him to leavo 
What was it to her that she was sole heiress of < ( her unmolested; and Mr. Bolton approached his 

all that great mansion, and of eleven thousand > patient almost immediately after the reading of 
a year? She had never. in her life thought of J the will, and in a manner took possession of her. 

the Lincolnshire fortune with any reference to J Mary was very glad to leave the room once more, 
herself or her own pleasures, and she thought of > and to go back into the dim chamber where 
it less than ever now. (Hester Pollard sat , at needle-work. Olivia' left 

The will was dated February 4, 1844, exactly her step-daughter to the care of this humble 
two months after John's marriage. It had been } companion, arid went back to the long dining- 
made by the master of Marchmont Towers with- {room, where the gentlemen still hung listlessly 


over the fire, not knowing, very well what to do J conscience, and leaves her bedchamber in the 
with themselves. ; stillness of the night to walk up and down.those 

Mrs. Marchmont could not do less than invite , long oaken corridors at the Towers, and wring 
Paul to stay a few days at the Towers. She jherhands and wail aloud in her sleep. Why did 
was virtually mistress ojithe house during Mary's she marry John Marchmont? His life gave her 
minority, and on her devolved all the troubles, f little more than a line house to live in. Hisdeath 
duties^-and responsibilities attendant on such a ;' leaves her with nothing but ten or twelve thou- 
position. Her father was going to stay with her \ sand pounds in the Three per Cents. What is her 
till the end of the week;- and he therefore would ; mystery ? what is her secret, I wonder ? for she 
be able to entertain Mr. Marchmont. Paul un- ! must surely have one.' 

hesitatingly accepted the widow's hospitality t Such thoughts as these filled his mind as the 
The did place was picturesque and interesting, J train carried him aw ay from the lonely little 
he said; there were some genuine Holbeins in (Station, and away from the neighborhood of 
the hall and dining-room, and one good Lely in \ Marchmont Towers, within whose stony walls 
the drawing-room. He would give himself a > Mary lay in her quiet chamber, weeping for her 
couple of days' holiday, and go to Stanfield by '■ dead fai'ii<|\ and wishing — God knows in what 
an early train on Saturday. -utter singleness of heart— that she had been 

'I have not seen my sister for a long time,' he buried in the vault by his side, 
said; 'her life is dull enough and bard enough,' ' v 
Heaven knows, and she will be glad to see me * 
upon my way back to London. ' *^* — ■ 

Olivia bowed. She did not persuade Mr. 
Marchmont to extend his visit. The common * 

courtesy she offered him was kept within the CHAPTER XIII. 

narrowest limits. She spent the best -part of the „,,„..>„ ^„ c „.,„ 

»• ■ ■ 41. J j > i i J • r, i!4 OLIVIA S DESPAIR. 

time in the dead mans study during Pauls two 

days' stay, and left the artist almost entirely to Tin: life which Mary and her step-daughter 
her father's companionship. led at Marchmont Towers after poor John's 

But she was compelled to appear at dinner, death was one of those tranquil and monotonous 
when she took her accustomed place at the head ' existences that leave very little to be .recorded, 
of the table; and Paul therefore had some oppor-' except the slow progress of the weeks and 
tunity of sounding the depths of the strangest ' months, the gradual changes of the seasons, 
nature he had ever tried to fathom. He talked/ Mary bore her sorrows quietly, as it was her na- 
to her very much, listening with unvarying- atten-' ture'to bear all things. The doctor's advice was 
tion to every word she uttered. He watched taken, and Olivia removed her step-Baughter to 
her — but with no obtrusive gaze — almost inces-' Scarborough soon after the funeral. But the 
santly; and when he went away from March- change of scene was slow to effpet any change in 
■mont Towers, without having seen Mary since ' the state of dull despairing sorrow into which the 
the reading of the will, it was of Olivia be 'girl had fallen. The sea-breezes brought no 
thought; it was the recollection of Olivia which ; co!6r into her pale cheeks. She obeyed her 
interested as much as it perplexed him. ' step-mother's behests unmurmuringly; and wa»- 

The few people waiting for the London train J dered wearily by the %ea-shore in the-dismal No- 
looked at the artist as lie strolled up and down \ vember weather in search of health and strength, 
the quiet platform at Kemberling Station, with < But wherever she went, she carried with her the 
his head bent and his eyebrows slightly con-' awful burden of her grief; and in every changing 
tracted. Pie had a certain easy, careless grace < cadence of the low winter winds, in every vary- 
of dress and carriage, which harmonized well ing murmur of the moaning waves, she seemed io 
with his delicate face, his silken silvery hair, his ; hear her dead father's funeral dirge. 
carefully-trained auburn moustache, and rosy,; I think that, young as Mary Marchmont was, 
womanish mouth. He was a romantic-looking. ; this mournful period was the great crisis of her 
man. He was the beau-ideal of the hero in a ' t life. The past, with its one great affection, had 
young-lady's novel. He was a man whom school- ', been swept away from her, and as yet there was 
girls would have called 'a dear.' But it had \ no friendly figui'Q to fill the dismal blank of the 
been better, I think, for any helpless wretch to ', future. Had any kindly matron, any gentle 
be in the bulWoghold of tire sturdiest Bill Sykes, Christian creature, been ready .to stretch out her 
ever loosed upon society by right of his ticlfet-of-< arms to the desolate orphan, Mary's heart would 
leave than in the power of Paul Marchmont,' have melted, and she would have crept to the 
artist and teacher of drawing, of Charlotte Street, ■; shelter of that womanly embrace, to nestle there 
Fitzroy Square. . {'forever. But there was no one. Olivia March- 

He was thinking of Olivia as he walked slowly ■; mont obeyed the letter of her husband's sfolemn 
up and down. the bare platform, only separated ' appeal, as she had obeyed -the letter of those Gos- 
by a rough wooden paling from the flat open '; pel sentences that had been familiar to her from 
fields on the outskirts of Kemberling. j her childhood, but was utterly unable to cotnm-e 

'The little girl is -as feeble as a pale February hend its spirit. She accepted the charge in" 
butterfly,' he thought; 'a puff of frosty wind ■ trusted to her. She was unflinching in 'the ner~ 
might wither her away. But that woman, that; formance of her duty; but no one °-lrmmer of fh 
woman— how handsome she is, with her accurate? holy lip;ht of motherly love and tenderness th 
profile and iron mouth; but what a raging fire > semi-divine compassion of womanhood ever 1° 

Perhaps she has some bloody secret as deadly as lous and self-relentless as the hardest irid £" 
the murder of a gray-headed Duncan upon her i ever pronounced sentence upon a criminal— h° 


took note of her own shortcomings, and aeknowl-,'girl of sixteen. They were never tired of lauding 
edged her deficiencies. " j'Mrs. Marchmont as a model for all step-motheis 

But, unhappily, this self-devotion of Olivia's ', in time to come, 
pressed no less heavily upon JVJarv than on the<* Did she sacrifice much this woman, whose 
widow herself. The more rigidly" Mrs. March- ', spirit was a raging fire, vvho had the ambition of 
mont performed the duties which she understood ;' a Semiramis, the courage of a Boadicea, the 
to be laid upon her by her dead husband's last J resolution of a Lady Macbeth? Did she sacri-. 
will and testament, the harder became the or- ) fice much in resigning such provincial gayeties 
phan's life. The weary tread-mil! of education ( as might have adorned her life— a few dinner- 
worked on, when the young student was well- '■ parties, an occasional county ball, a flirtation 
nigh, fainting upon every step on that hopeless ; : with some ponderous landed gentleman or hunt- 
ladder of knowledge. If Olivia, on communing < mg squire ? 

with herself at night, found that the day just;. No; these things would very soon have grown 
done had been too easy a one for both mistress ; odious to her; more odious than the monotony 
and pupil, the morrow's allowance of Roman (of her empty life, more wearisome even than 
emperors and French grammar was ipade to do S the perpetual weariness of her' own spirit. I 
pennace for yesterday 's shortcomings. ;! said that, when she accepted a new life by be- 

' This girl has been intrusted to my care, and > coming the wife of John Marchmont, she acted 
one of my first duties is to give her a good edu- ;in the spirit of a prisoner who is glad to exchange 
cation,' Olivia Marchmont thought. 'She'is^his old dungeon for a new one. But, alas, the 
inclined to be idle; but 1 must fight against her J novelty of the prison-house had very speedily 
inclination, whatever trouble the struggle entails '/ worn off, and that which Olivia Arundel had 
upon myself. The harder the battle, the better ! , been at Swampington Rectory, Olivia March- 
forme, if lam conqueror.' ^mont was now in the gaunt country mansion — a 

It was only thus that Olivia Marchmont could ;' wretched woman, weary of herself and all the 
hope to be a good woman. It was only by the > world, devoured by a slow-consuming and per- 
rigid performance of hard duties, the patient ;', petual fire. 

practice of tedious rites, that she could hope to v This woman was for two long melancholy years 
attain that eternal crown which simpler Chris- ', Mary Marchmont's sole companion and instruct- 
tians seem to win so easily. „ ress. I say sole companion advisedly; for the girl 

Morning and night the widow and her step- ;' was not allowed to become intimate with the 
daughter read the Bible together; morning and younger members of such few county families as 
night they knelt side by side to join in the same ', still called occasionally at the Tow«rs, lest she 
familiar prayers : yet all these readings, and all) should become empty-headed and frivolous by 
these prayers, failed to bring them any nearer 'such companionship, Olivia said. Alas! there 
together. No tender sentence of inspiration, not •', was little fear of Mary's becoming empty-headed, 
the words of Christ Himself, ever struck the same ', As she grew taller and more slender, she seemed 
chord in these two women's hearts, bringing both ', to get weaker and paler, and her heavy head, 
into sudden unison. They went to church three ' drooped wearily under the load of knowledge 
times upon each dreary Sunday — dreary from the.' which it had Seen made to carry, like some 
terrible uiiifgrmity which made one clay a me- •'. poor sickly flower oppressed by the weight of 
chanical repetition of ano/her, and sat together ' the dew-drops which would have revivified a 
in the same pew; and there were times when > hardier blossom. 

some solemn word, some sublime injunction, ) Heaven knows to what end Mrs. Marchmont 
seemed to fall with a new meaning upon the or- 'educated her step-daughter. Poor Mary could 
phan girl's heart; but if she looked at her step- ■' have to!d the precise date of any event; in uni- 
mother'« face, thinking to see some ray of that •', vereal history, ancient or modern; she could 
sudden light which had newly shone intp her own ;' have named the exact latitude and longitude of 
mind reflected there, the blank gloom of Olivia's : < the remotest island in the least navigable ocean, 
countenance seemed like a dead wall, across and might have given an accurate account of the 
which no glimmer of radiance ever shone. 'manners and customs of its inhabitants had she 

They went back to Marchmont Towers in the '. been called upon to do so. She was. alarmingly 
early spring. People imagined that the young , learned upon the subject of tertiary and old red 
widow would cultivate the society of her hus- , sandstone, and could have told you almost as 
band's Old friends, and that morning callers J much as Mr. Charles Kingsley himself about the 
would be welcome at the Tcfwers, and the stately ' history of a gravel-pit — though I doubt if she 
dinner-parties would begin again, when Mrs. ; could have oonveyed her irf formation in quite 
Marchmont's year of mourning was over. But ■■ such a pleasant manner; she could have pointed 
it was not so; Olivia closed her doors upon al- ', out every star in the broad heavens above Lin- 
most all society, and devoted herself entirely to ] colnshire, and could have told the history of its 
the education of her step-daughter. The gossips : discovery; she knew the hardest names that 
of Swampington and Kemberling; the country ( science' had given to the familiar field-flowers 
sentry who had talked of her piety and patience; : she met in her daily walks; yet 1 can not say 
her unflinching devotion to the poor of her fa- \ that her conversation was any the more brilliant 
ther's parish, talked now of her self-abnegation; .\ because of this, or that her spirits grew any the 
the sacrifices she made for her step-daughter's ] lighter under the influence of this general mental 
sake; the noble manner in which, she justified \ illumination. 

John Marchmont's confidence in her goodness.; But Mrs. Marchmont did most earnestly be- 
Other women would have intrusted the heiress's / lieve that this laborious edueationarv process 
education to some hired governess, people said; ' was one of the duties she owed her step-daugh- 
other women would have been Upon the look-out \ ter; and when, at seventeen years of age, Mary 
for a second husband; other women would have • emerged from the struggle, Jaden with such in- 
Vown weary of the dullness of that lonely Lin- tellectual spoils-as 1 have described above, the 
Stoe mLsion.the monotonous society of a Jwidow felt a quaet satisfaction as she contem- 


plated her work, and said to herself, 'In this, at ■ shining and slippery that »» ^* * "^Iv^ 
least, I have done my duty. ' :' any body ever contrived to ^ d °™ U P° ^ now 

Among all the dreary mass of instruction be- { Olivia allowed such solemn vsi ts as inese ibow 
neath which her health had nearly succumbed, ', and then, and she permitted « a ry to renew ine 
the girl had learned one thing that' was a source J farmer's lease upon sufficient y j ^vamageou. 
of pleasure to herself. She had learned to be- i terms', and to make occasional pre ents to her 
come a very brilliant musician. She was not a f favorite, Hester. But all ^olen visit s to ttel arm- 
musical genius, remember; for no such vivid flame < yard, all evening rambles with the iarmer » aau sn- 
as the fire of genius had ever burned in her gentle ', ter in the apple-orchard at the bacK o .we low 
breast; but all the tenderness of her nature, all ; white farm-house, were strictly lnteraicte a, ana 
the poetry of a hyper-poetical mind, centred in. > though Mary and Hester were fri ends s t»'. »^y 
this one accomplishment, and, condemned to per- > were fain to be content with a chance otmeeumj. 
petual silence in «very other tongue, found a ne w ) once in the course of a dreary interval ot montns, 
and glorious language here. -The girl had beer* and a silent pressure of the hand, 
forbidden to read Byron and Scott, but she was ) 'You mustn't think that I am proud of my mo- 
no! forbidden to sit at her piano when the day's 5 ney, Hester,' Mary said to her friend, or that i. 
toils were over, and the twilight was dusky in her > forget you now that we see each other so seldom, 
quiet room, playing dreamy melodies by Beetho- Papa used to let me come to the farm whenever 1 
ven and Mozart, and making her own poetry to liked; but papa had seen a great de^l ol poverty. 
Mendelssohn's wordless songs. I think her soul Mamma keeps me almost always at home at my 
must have shrunk and withered away had it not ! studies; but she is very good to me, and of course 
been for this one resource, this one refuge, in i I am bound to obey her; papa,wisned me to obey 
which her mind regained its elasticity, springing i her. ' ; 

up. like a trampled flower, into new life and ■} The orphan girl never for a moment lorgot the 
beauty. \ terms of her father's will, jffehad wished her to 

Olivia was well pleased to see the girl sit hour obey, what should she do then but be obedient ? 
after hour at her piano. She had learned to play \ Her submission to Olivia's lightest wish was only 
well and brilliantly herself, mastering all diffi- 
culties with the proud determination which was a 
part of her strong nature; but she had no speeial 
love for music. ' All things that compose the po- 
etry and beauty of life had been denied to this ■ 
woman, in cpmmon with the tenderness which 
makes the chief loveliness of womankind. She 

a part of the homage which she paid to that be- 
loved father's memory. * . 

It was thus she grew to early womanhood; a 
child in gentle obedience and docility; a woman 
by reason of that grave and thoughtful character 
which had been peculiar to her from her very in- 
fancy. It was in a life such as this, narrow, mo- 
sat by and listened while Mary's slight hands } notonous, joyless, that her seventeenth birthday 
wandered over the instrument, carrying the play- 1 came and went, scarcely noticed, scarcely remem- 
er's soul away into trackless regions of dream- ', bered, in the dull uniformity of the days which 
land and beauty; but she heard nothing in the ' uff "" t "" ,t ^m„a th Pm - ™a m»™ MopM,,™^ 
music except so many chords, so many tones and 
semi-tones, played in such or such a time. 

It would have been scarcely natural for Mary 
Marchmont, reserved and 'self-contained though 
she had been ever since her father's death, to have 
had no yearning for mote genial companionship 
than that of her step mother. The girl who had 
kept watch in her room by the doctor's suggestion 
was the one friend and confidante Whom the young 
laistress of Marchmont Towers fain would have 
chosen. But here Olivia interposed, sternly for- 
bidding any intimacy between the two girls. Hes- 
ter Pollard was the daughter of a small tenant 
farmer, and'nofit associate for Mrs. MarchmontS 
step-daughter. Olivia thought that this^aste for 
obscure company Was the fruit of Mark's earl\ 
training; the taint left by those -bitter, debasing 
days of poverty, in which John Marchmont and 
his daughter had lived in some wretched Lam- 
beth lodging. *■ 

'But Hester Pollard is fond of me, mamma,' 
the girl pleaded, 'and I feel so happy at the old 

left no track behind them; and Mary Marchmont 
was a woman — a woman with all the tragedy of 
life before her; infantine in her innocence and 
inexperience of the world outside Marchmont 
Towers* . 

The passage of time had been so long unmarked 
by any break in its tranquil course, the dull rou- 
ine of life had been so long undisturbed by change, 
that I believe the two women thought their lives 
would go on for ever and ever. Mary, at least, 
had never looked beyond the dull horizon of the 
present. Her ^habit of castle-building had died 
>ut with her father's death. What need had sh'e, 
to build castles now that he could no longer in- 
habit them r Edward Arundel, the bright boy she 
remembered in Oakley Street, the dashing young 
officer who had come to Marchmont Towers, had 
Iropped back into the chaos of the past. Her 
father had been the keystone in the arch of Ma- 
ry's existence: he was gone, and a mass of cha- 
otic ruins alone remained of the familiar visions 
which had once beguiled her. The world had 
ended with John Marchmont's de^h, and his 

farm-house. They are ajl so kind to me when 1 ^ daughter's life since that great sorrow had been 

go there — Hester's father and mother, and little 
brothers and sisters, you know; and the poultry- I 
yard, and the pigs and horses, and the green-pond, ' 
with the geese cackling round it, remind me ol 
my aunt's in Berkshire. I went there once with 
poar papa for a day or two; it was suck a change {. 

after Oakley Street.' ' . ^ 

But Mrs. Marchmont was inflexible. upon this > and brave Englishmen were winning loot" and 
point. She would allow her step-daughter to pay '■ laurels, or perishing under the cimeters of Sikhs 
a ceremonial visit now and then to Farmer Pol- and Afghans, as the case may be. Squire Arun- 
lard's, and to be entertained with cowslip-wine > del 's -youngest son was not doing less than his 
and pound-cake in the low old-fashioned parlor, > duty, the letters said. He had gained Bis can 
where all the polished mahogany chairs were sp , taincy, and was well spoken of by great soldiers 

at best only a passive endurance of existence 

They had heard very little of the young soldier 
at Marchmont Towers. Now and then a letter 
Irom some member of the family at Dangeriield 
had come to the Rector of Swampington. The 
arfare was still raging far away in the East 
cruel and desperate battles were being fought' 


whose very names were like the sound of the ; her youth. It was no longer a sin to think .of 
war-trumpet to English ears. ' ; Edward Arundel. Having once suffered this idea 

Olivia heard all this. She sat bv her father, \ to arise in her mind, her idol grew too strong for 
sometimes looking over his shoulder at the crum-' her, and she thought of him by night and day. 
pled letter, as he read aloud to her of her cowinV ^ «u u, e i,- r i 

exploits. The familiar name seemed to be alL, Tes; she $ 0U t ght £?7 ^ ^Tk .f5 
ablaze with lurid light as the wit Greedy The narrow hfe to which she doomed herself, the, 
eyes devoured it. -How commonplace he fetters ^if-immolaUon which Recalled duty left her a 
were! What frivolous nonsense Letilia A urde P re ? {° f th f ™ e t^E^ Her work was not 
Intermingled with the news of her brother '- enou S h for her - Her powerful mmd wasted and 
■ You'll L glad to hear Tat my gra?p« y ha, U*™}** for want of worthy employment, t 
Igot the better of his lameness. Papa gave a hunt- T* 8 h ke ° ne V f *V° " ° & T?{ T" ^ 
ing-breakfast on Tuesday week. Lord Mount- the wisdom of the world might have been in- 
litchcombe was present; but the hunting men are scrlbed > but . on wh 'f was only written over and 
very much aggravated about the frost, fnd I fear °T a $ a1 *' in ^P 1 ^ ' e ralion, the name of 
we shall have no crocuses. Edward has got his P ward A ™ndel. _ If Olivia Marchmont could 
captaincy, papa told me to tell you; Sir Charles have gone to^, and entered herself among 
Napier and Major Outram have spoken very the feminine professors of law and medic,ne-,f 
highly of hift; but he-Edward, I meaq-rot a * he couId have set up a printing-press in Bloonii, 
sabre-cut on his. left arm, besides a wound on his '* m '?>? r even T"™* n0Te1 - 1 th , lnk f she m '^ 
forehead, and was laid up for nearly a month. 1 bave been sav , e A Th f e superabundant energy of 
dare sav vom rememhp ■ * ~ > . . m ., . . < her minn ivnnln have tnnnrl a new nmect. As it/ 

Halburton Lodge? H 

has left all his money to— ' And the young'lady \ l ,.,. ., , , , , - ,- - 

ran on thus with such gossip 1 as she thought might repetition the dream had become a madness, 
be pleasing to her uncle; and there were no more*! But the monotonous life was not to go on for-. 
tidings of the young soldier, whose life-blood had \ ever- The dull, gray, leaden skv was to be ih 
so nearly.been spilt for his country's glory. < lumined by sudden bursts of sunshine, and swept 

Olivia thjpught of him as she rode back to; by black thunder-cloudsf whose stormy violence 
Marchm'nt Towers. She thought of the sabre- < was to shake the.very universe for these two soli- 
cut upon his arm, and pictured him wounded and ;,' tary women. 

bleeding, lying beneath the canvas shelter of aJ! John Marchmont had been dead nearly three 
tent, comfortless, lonely, forsaken. ; years. Mary's humble friend, the farmer's 

' Better for me if he had died,' she thought;;! daughter, had married a young tradesman in the 
'better for me if I were to hear of his death to- ';! village of Kemberling, a mile and a half from the 
morrow.' ' f Towers. Mary was a woman now," and hadiseen 

And with the idea the picture of such a ca-; the last of the Roman Emperors and all the drj- 
lamity arose before her so vividly and hideously J as-dust studies of her early girlhood. She had 
,i\„n„„i *k„t „v,„ +u i,.f u.:„c '-' l -" : -- *- J - but accompany her step-mother 

ither among the poor cottagers 
ling and two or three other small 

She imagined herself going to see, her father l parishes within a drive of the Towers, doing 
as she had gone that morning. All would be the \ good, after Olivia's fashion, by ljne and rule, 
same : the low gray garden-wall of the Rectory: > At home the young lady did what she pleased, 
the ceaseless surging of the sea; the prim servant- '/ fitting for hours together at her piano, or wading 
maid; the familiar study, whh its litter of books!; through gigantic achievements in the way of em- 
and papers; the smell of old cigar-smoke; the '/ broidery-work. She was even allowed to read 
chintz curtains flapping in the open window; thw novels now, but only-such novels as were es- 
dry leaves fluttering in the garden without ' peciaily recommended 'to Olivia, who was one of 
"There would be nothing changed except her la- l > the patronesses of a book-club at Swampington. 
ther's .face, which wouid be a little graver than i The two women went to Kemberling Church 
usual'. And then, after a little hesitation, after a / together three times every Sunday. It was 
brief preamble about the uncertainty of life, the!; rather jponotcnous; the same church, the same 
necessity for looking always beyond this world,/ ,*ector and curate, the same clerk, J.ho same con- 
the horrors of war— the dreadful words would b< / <regation, the same old organ tunes and droning 
upon his" lips, when she would read all tht ^ voicesof Lincolnshire charity-children, the same 
hideous truth -in his face, and fall prone to tht ''/ sermons very often. But Mary had .grown ac- 
(rrounil before he could say, ' Edward Arundel is / customed to monotony. She hed ceased to hope 
dead.' i or care for anything since her father's death,' and 

Yes; sl% felt all the anguish. It would be / was very well contented to be let alone, and aJ- 
this — this sudden paralysis of black despair. She 'i 'owed to dawdle through a dreary life which was 
tested the strength of her endurance by this im-*!' utterly without airn or purpose. -She sat oppo- 
nginary torture — scarcely imaginary surely, wher ' site her step-mother on one particular afternoon 
itseemedsorea! — and asked herself a strange ques- !• in the state pew at Kemberling, which was lined 
lion : 'Am I strong enough to bear this, or woulo !< with faded red baize, and raised a little above 
it be less terrible to go on, suffering forever — for '/ he pews of meaner worshipers; she was sitting 
ever abased and humiliated by the degradation oJ 'i vith her listless hands lying in her lap, looking 
ray love for a man who does not care for me?' t houghlfuily at her step-mother's stony face, and 

So long as John Marchmont had lived this wo- ' istening to thedull droning of the rector's voice 
man would have been true to the terrible victor' / tbove her head. It was a sunny afternoon in 
she had won upon the eve of her bridal. She / ;arly June, and the church was bright with a 
would have been true to herself and to her mar- / .varm yellow radiance; one of the old diamond- 
ria«-a- vow; but her husband's death, in setting J^aned windows was open, and the tinkling of a 
her 3 free had cast her back upon the madness ol^sheep-bell far away in the distance, and the hum 


f bees in the church-yard, sounded pleasantly in ! father came back to her mind, and her eyes filled/ 
'he quiet of the hot atmosphere. ' i with tears. How sorry Edward would be to see 

': The young mistress of Marchmont Towers felt i his old friend's empty place in the western draw- 
he drowsy influence of that tranquil summer ) ing- room; how sorry for her and for her loss ! 
yeather creeping stealthily upon her. The ) Olivia Marchmont saw the change in her step- 
leavy eyelids drooped over her soft brown eyes, i daughter's face, and' looked at her with stern 
hose fistful eyes which had looked so long | amazement. But, after the first shock of that 
vearily out upon a world in which there seemed J delicious surprise, Mary's training asserted itself, 
o little joy. The rector's sermon was a very > She folded her hands — they trembled a little, but 
ong one this warm afternoon, and there was a {Olivia did not see that— and waited patiently, 
ow sound of snoring somewhere in one of the with her eyes cast down and a faint flush lighting 
hadowy and shattered pews beneath the gal- up her pale cheeks, until the sermon was finished 
.eries. Mary tried vejy hard to keep herself j and' the congregation began to disperse. She was 
iwake. -Mrs. Marchmont had frowned darkly j not impatient. She felt as if she could have 
it her once or twice already, for to fall asleep in | waited thus peacefully and contentedly forever, 
church Was a dire iniquity in Olivia's rigid creed; J knowing that; the only friend she had on earth 
but the drowsiness was not easily to be con- was near her. 

quered, and the girl was sinking into a peaceful j Olivia was slow to leave her pew; but at last 
slumber in the face of her step-motber's menac- j she opened the door and went out into the quiet 
ing frowns, when the sound of a sharp footfall on { aisle, followed by Mary, out under the shadowy 
one of the gravel pathways in the church-yard porch and into the gravel-walk in the church- 
aroused her attention, yard, where Edward Arundel was waiting for the 

Heaven knows why she should have been <; two ladies. 
awoke out of her sleep by the sound of that step, j John Marchmont's widow uttered no cry of 
]t was different perhaps to the footsteps of the < surprise when she saw her cousin standing a lit- 
Kemberling congregation. ^ The brisk, sharp j tie away apart from the slowly-dispersing Kem- 
'sound of the tread, striking* lightly but firmly on j berling congregation. Her dark face faded a 
the gravel, was n,ot compatibte with the shuffling /, little, and her heart seemed to stop its pulsation 
gait of the tradespeople and farmers' men who j suddenly, as if sbe had been turned into stone; 
formed the greater part of "the worshipers at that i but this was only for a moment. She held out 
quiet Lincolnshire church. Again, it would have her hand to Mr. Arundel in the next instant, and 
been a monstrous sin in that tranquil place for j bade him welcome to Lincolnshire, 
any one member of the congregation to disturb ; ' I did not know you were in England,' she 
the rest by entering at-such a time-as this. It J said. 

was a stranger, then, evidently. What did it; 'Scarcely any one knows it yet,' the young 
matter? Miss Marchmont scarcely cared to lift S man answered; ' and I have not even been home. 

her eyelids to see whp or what the stranger was 
but the intruder let in such a flood of June sun 
shine when he pushed open the ponderous oaken 
door under the church porch that she was dazzled 
by that sudden burst of light, and involuntarily 
opened her eyes. 

The stranger let the door swing softly to be- 
hind him, and stood beneath the shadow of the 
porch, not caring to advance any farther, or to 

1 came to Marchmont Towers at once. 

He turned from his cousin to Mar*, wh6 was 
standing a little behind her step-mother. 

' Dear Folly,' he said, taking both her hands 
in his, ' 1 was so sorry for -you when I heard — ' 

He stopped, for he saw the tears welling up to 
her eyes. It was not his allusion to her father's 
death that had distressed her. He had called 
her Polly, the old familiar name, which she had 

disturb the congregation by his presence. i never heard since that dead father's lips had last 

Mary could not see him very plainly at first. \ spoken it 

She could only dimly define ihe. outline of his 
tall figure, rtie waving masses of chestnut hair 
tinged with gleams of gold; but, little by little 

The carriage was waiting at the gate of the 
church-yard, and Edward Arundel went back 
to Marchmont Towers with the two ladies. He 

his face seemed to grow out of the 'shadow', until j had reached the house a quarter of an hour after 
she saw it all — the handsome patrician features, (they had left it for afternoon church, and had 
the luminous blue eyes, the amber mustache — the / walked over to liemberling. 
face which in Oakley Street, eight years ago, she j ' I was. so anxious to see you, Polly,' he said, 
had elected as her type of all manly perfection, j ' after all this long time, that I had no patience to 
her ideal of heroic grace. ) wait until you and Livy came back from church.' 

Yes; it was Edward Arundel. Her eyes lighted Olivia started as the young man said this. It 
up with an unwonted rapture as she looked at J was Mary Marchmont whom he had come to see 
him; her lips parted, and her breath came in faint thc«; not her. Was she never to be anything? 
gasps. AU the monotonous years, the terrible . Was she to be forever insulted by this humiliat- 
agonies of sorrow, dropped away into the past;; fug indifference? A dark flush came over her 
and there was nothing but the present, the all- ; face, as she drew her head up with the air of an 
glorious present. t offended empress, and looked angrily at her 

The one friend of her childhood had come ^ cousin. Alas! he did not even see that indignant 
back. The one Jink, the almost forgotten link, S glance. He was bending over Mary, tellimr her 
that bound her to every day-dream of those fool- ] in a low, tender voice, of the grief he had felt at 
ish early days, was united once more by the pre- / learning the news of her father's death 
senee of the young soldier. All that happy time, \ Olivia Marchmont looked with an eager scru 
nearly five years ago— that happy time m which ; tinizing gaze at her step-daughter Could' it be" 
the tennis-court had been built, and the boat- .; possible that Edward Arundel m g'ht ever come 
house by the river, restored— those sunny autumn ; to love this girl ? Could such a thine be Dossible ? 
days before her father's second marnage— re- : A hideous depth of horror and conlwion .wZi 
turned to her. There was pleasure and joy in ; to open before her with the thoueht In all *• 
the world, after all; and then the memory of her past, among all things »fc« ha* unagiotd amass 


all tho calamities she had pictured to herself, she ! being under the spelt of Edward Arundel's pre- 
had never thought of any thing like this. Would < sence. 

such a thing ever come to pass ? Would she ever \ But she made no attempt to prevent his stop- 
grow to hate this girl— this girl, who had been, ping at the Towers, though a word from her 
intrusted to her by her dead husband — with the 1 would have effectually hindered his coming. A 
most terrible hatred that one woman could feel J dull torpor of .despair took possession of her; a 
toward another? < black apprehension paralyzed her mind. » She 

In the next moment she was an tv with her- i felt that a P ifc of horror was opening before her 
«elf .for the abject folly of this new°terror She ignorant feet. All that she had- suffered was as 
had 'never yet learned to think of Mary as a wo- \ nothing to what she was about to suffer. Let it 
man. She had never thought of her-otherwise $ *"*. then - what could she do ' to kee P thls tor - 
than as the pale childlike girl who had come to \ ture awa y from her? Let lt; com8 ' since ll 
her meekly, day after day, to- recite difficult les- seemed that it must come m some shape or other, 
sons, standing in a submissive attitude before her, she thought all this while she sat back in a 
and rendering obedience to her in all things. J corner of the carriage watching the two faces 
Was, it likely, was it possible, that this pale- ; opposite to her, as Edward and Mary, seated 
faced girl would enter into the lists against her ', with their baoks to the horses, talked together in 
in the great battle of her life? Was it likely that ', !ow » confidential tones, which scarcely reached 
she was to find her adversary and her conqueror ', her ear - she thought all this during the short 
here, in the meek child who had been committed ^.drive between Kemberling and Marchmont 
to her charge' 'Towers; and when the carriage drew up before 

• She watched her step-daughftr's face with a J the low Tudor portico, the dark shadow had set- 
jealous, hungry gaze. Was it beautiful? No! i Hf ^f^f i Her mind wis made.up. *f 
The features were delicate; the brown eyes soft ^ard Arundel come; let the worst come She 

nr >A A„T, a i;\ ra „i „t i~ , i *u <- *i „ < had struggled; she had tried to do her duty; she 

ana doveliKe, almost lovely, now that they were > , j * • ± u i a , i j »• 

irradiated bj a new light, as they looked 1 sjiyly ^ h t ad strl \l n l ? be u ? ood : , B f h her de t s ^ was 
up at Edwa/d Arundel But the girl 's face was \ str ° n ^ r tha « **™X> and had hro ^ this young 
„L n nr .A „^i„„i„„„ t* i i j ,i i j A soldier over land and.sea, safe out of every dan- 
wan and colorless. It lacked the splendor of resc ued from everv oeril to be her destruc- 
beauty. It was on y after you had looked at her f aT ' ves T cn l- , om every peni, to oe ner aesiruc 
f™ r, ,.„..„ i««™ t;^„ ti + v, * jX- i *i, amn. I think that in this crisis of her life the 
lor a very long time that you bearan to think the < , . ,. . . f „, ■ ,- ,■ , . .. , -, t e ,,. 
ficp rithpp nrtttv last famt ra J of Christian light laded out of this 
^ J /lost woman s soul, leaving utter carkness and 

The five years during which Edward Arundel ', desolation. The old landmarks, dimly described 
had been away had made little alteration in him. I j n the weary desert, sank forever down into the 
He was rather stouter, perhaps; his amber mus- > quicksands, and ■■ she was left alone— alone with 
tache thicker; his manner more dashing than of her despair. Her jealous soul prophesied the 
bid. The mark of a sabre-cut under the cluster- ', ev il which she dreaded. Th^s man, whose indif- 
ing chestnut curls upon the temple gave him a *f ere nce to her was almost an insult, would fall in 
certain soldierly dignity., He seemed a man ofJ| ove with Mary Marchmont— with Mary March- 
the world now, and Mary Marchmont was rather ^ m ont, whose eyes lit uo into new beauty under 
afraid of him. He was so different to the Lin- 5 the glances of his, whose pale face blushed into 
colnshire squires, the bashful younger sons who J f amt bloom as he talked to her. The girl's un- 
were to be educated for the Church. He was so ', disguised admiration would flatter the young 
dashing, so elegant, so splendid ! From the wav- ', mall > s vanity, and he would fall in love with her 
ing grace of his hair to the tip of the polished ', ou t f very frivolity and weakness of purpose, 
boot peeping out of his well-cut trowsers (there ', 'He is weak and vain, and foolish and frivolous, 
were no peg-tops in 1847, and it was le genre,\.o '/ \ .dare say,' Olivia thought; 'and if I were to 
show very little of the boot), he was a creature '/ fling myself upon my knees, at his feet, and teH 
to be wondered at, to be almost reverenced, Mary j him that 1 loved him, he would be fluttered and 
thought. She could not help admiring the cut oi J grateful, and would be ready to return my affec- 
his coat, the easy nonchalance of his manner, the J tion. If I could tell him what this girl tells hire 
waxed ends of his curved mustache, the dang- ', m every look and word, he would be as pleased 
ling toys of gold and enamel tha,t jingled at his ' t w jth me as he is -ritli her.' 
watch-chain, the wavesi of perfume that floated i j| er ijp curled with unutterable scorn as she 
away from bis cambric handkerchief. She was 5 thought this. She was so despicable to herself 
childish enough to worship all these external at- } by the deep humiliation of her wasted love, that 
tributes m her hero. ' the object of that foolish passion seemed despica- 

' Shall' I invite him to Marchmont Towers ?'<;ble also. She was forever weighing Edward 
Olivia thought; and while she was deliberating i Arundel against all the tortures she had endured 
upon this question, Mary Marchmont cried out, / for his sake, and forever finding him wanting. 
' You will stop at the Towers, won't you, Mr; He must have been a demi-god if his perfections 
Arundel, as you did when poor papa was alive?'? could have outweighed so much misery; and for 

' Most decidedly, Miss Marchmont,' the young? this reason she was unjust to her cousin, and 
man answered. ' I mean to throw myself upon / could not accept him for that which' he really 
vour hospitality as confidingly as I did a long i was — a generous-hearted, candid, honorable young 
time ago in Oakley Street, when you gave me hot t man — not a great man or a wonderful man — a 
rolls for my breakfast. ' _ t brave and honest-minded soldier, very well worthy 

Mary laughed aloud; perhaps for the first time / of a good woman's love. 


since her father's death. Olivia bit her lip. She ! 

was of so little account, then, she thought, than Mr. Arundel stayed at the Towers, occupying 

they did not care to consult her. A gloomy 
shadow spread itself over her face. Already, 
she began to hate this palefaced, childish orphan 

girl, Who isemed to be transformed into a new! old friend's daughter. Amidst all the Calcutta 

the room which had been his in John March- 
mont's lifetime; and a new existence began for 
Mary. The young man was delighted with his 


belles whom he had danced with at Government-; doubtless have taken Mary Marchmont with her, 
.House balls,* and flirted with upon the Indian '< but the girl had been suffering* from a violent 
race-course, he could remember no one as fasci- \ headache throughout the burning summer day, 
nating as this girl, who seemed as childlike now, < and had kept her room. Edward Arundel had 
in her early womanhood, as she had been wo- J gone out early in the morning upon a fishing ex- 
manly while she was a child. Her naive tender- icursion' to a famous trout-stream seven or eight 
ness for himself bewitched and enraptured him. > miles from the Towers, and was not likely to re- 
Who pould have avoided being charmed by that 'turn until after nightfall. There was no chance, 
pure and innocent affection, which was as freely > therefore, of a meeting between Mary and the 
given by the girl of eighteen as it had been by /young officer, Olivia thought; no chance of' any 
the child, and was unchanged in character by the /confidential talk which she would not be by to 
lapse of years? The young officer had been so /hear. 

much admired and caressed in Calcutta, that per- / Did Edward Arundel love the pale-faced girl 
haps, by reason of his successes, he had returned '/ who revealed her devotion to him with such child- 
to England heart-whole; and he abandoned him- /like unconsciousness? Olivia Marohmont had not 
self, without any arriere-pensee, to the quiet hap- ; been able to, answer that question. She had 
piness which he felt in Mary Marchmont's society../ sourtded the young man several times upon his 
I do not say that he was intoxicated by her beauty,,' feelings toward her stepdaughter; but he had 
which was by no means of the intoxicating order, / met her hints and insinuations with perfect frank- 
or that he was madly in love with her. The gen- /ness, declaring that Maty seemed as much a. child 
tie fascination of her society crept upon him be-/ to him now as she had appeared, nearly nine years 
fore he was aware of its influence. He had : before in Oakley Street, and that the pleasure he 
never taken the trouble to examine his own feel-/ took in her society was only such as he might 
ings; they were disengaged — as free as butterflies /have felt in thdt of any innocent and confiding 
to settle upon which flower might seem the fair-/ child. 

est; and he had therefore no need to put himself/ ' Her simplicity is so bewitching, you know, 
under a course of rigorous self-examination. As/Livy,' he said; 'she looks up in my face, and 
yet he believed that the pleasure he now felt in /trusts me with all her little secrets, and tells me 
Mary's society was the same order of the enjoy-/ her dreams about her dead father, and all herfool- 
ment he had experienced five years before, when / ish, innocent fancies, as confidingly as if I were 
he had taught her chess, and promised her long / some play-fellow of her own age and sex. She's 
rambles by the sea-shore. '< so refreshing after the artificial belles of a Cal- 

They had no long rambles now in solitary lanes/ cutta ball-room, with their stereotyped fascina- 
and under flowering hedgerows, beside the waving/ tions and their complete manual of flirtation, the 
green corn. Olivia watched them with untiring/ same forever and ever. She is such a pretty little 
eyes. The tortures to which a jealous woman/ spontaneous darling, with her soft, shy, brown 
may condemn herself are not much greater than / eyes, and her low voice, which always sounds 
those she can inflict upon others. Mrs. March-/ to me like the cooing of thedoves in the poultry- 
mont took good care that her ward and her cousin/ yard.' 

were not too happy. Wherever they went she) I think that Olivia, in the depth of her gloomy 
went also; whenever they spoke she listened;/ despair, took some comfort from such speeches 
whatever arrangement was most likely to please/ as these. Was this frank expression of regard 
them was opposed by her. Edward was not cox-/ for Mary Marchmont a token of love 1 No; not 
comb enough to have any suspicion of the reason ; as the widow understood the stormy madness, 
of this conduct on his cousin's part. Ha only ; Love to her hadbeen a dark and terrible passion, 
smiled and shrugged his shoulders, and attributed \ a thing to be concealed, as monomaniacs have 
her watchfulness to an overstrained sense of her ; sometimes contrived to keep the secret of their 
responsibility and the necessity of surveillance. ', mania, until it burst forth at last, fatal and irre- 

•Does she think me such a villain and a traitor,' ;pressible, in some direful work of wreck and 
he, thought, 'that she fears to leave me alone with l , ruin. 

my dead friend's orphan daughter, lest I should ; So Olivia Marchmont took an early dinner 
whisper corruption into her innocent ear? How ', alone, and drove away from the Towers at four 
little these good women know of us, after all! ; o'clock on a blazing summer afternoon, more at 
What vulgar suspicions a^id narrow-minded fears \ peace perhaps than she .had been since Edward 
influence them against us! Are they honorable \ Arundel's coming. She paid her dutiful visit to 
and honest toward each other, I wonder, that they < her father, sat with him for some time, talked to 
can entertain such pitiful doubts of our honor and ', the two old servants who waited upon him, 
honesty?' , ) walked two or three times up and down the 

So hour after hour and day after day Olivia ', neglected garden, and then drove back to the 
Marchmont kept watch and ward over Edward >, Towers. 

and Mary. It was strange that love could bios-; The first object upon which her eyes fellas 
som in such an atmosphere; it seems strange that ; she entered the hall was Edward Arundel's fish- 
the cruel sraze of those hard gray eyes did not! ing-tackle lying in disorder upon an oaken 
chill the two innocent hearts, and prevent their ■', bench near the broad arched door that opened 
free expansion. But it was not so. The egotism ', out into the quadrangle. An angry flush mounted 
of love was all omnipotent. Neither Edward ! to her face as she turned upon the servant near 
nor Mary was conscious of ..the evil light in the ', her. 

glance that so often rested upon them ; The uni- 1 'Mr. Arundel has come home ?' she said 
verse narrowed itself to the one spot of earth 'Yes, ma'am— he came in half an hour aso- 
upon which these two stood side by side. but he went out again almost directly with Mi« 

Edward Arundel had been more than a month Marchmont.' J 

at Marchmont Towers when Olivia went, upon 'Indeed! I thought Mias Marchmont was in her 
a hot July evening, to Swampmgton, on a brief Jr^om?' ™ 

visit to the Rector— a visit of duty. She would ( 'No, ma'am; she came down to the drawitiff 


Boom about an hour after you left. Her head i you. It is your innocence I love, Polly dear— fa 
was better, ma'am, shelsaid.' : me call you Polly, as I used five years ago— and 

'And she went out with Mr. Arundel? Do you ; 1 wouldn't have you otherwise for all the worli 
know which way they went?' ' j Do you know that sometimes t am almost sorry 1 

'Yes, ma'am; I heard Mr. Arundel say he [ ever came" back to Marchmont Towers ?' 
wanted to look at the old boat-house by the ; ' Sorry you came back?' cried Mary, in a 
river.' < tone of alarm. ' Oh, why do you say that, Mr. 

'And they have gone there ?' ; Arundel ?' 

'1 think so, ma'am.' ' Because you are heiress to eleven thousand 

'Very good; I will go- down to them. Miss ; a year, Mary, and the Moated Grange behind us; 
Marchmont must not stop out in the night-air. -and this dreary wood, and the river — the river is 
The dew is falling already.' ; yours, 1 dare say, Miss Marchmont; and I wish 

The door leading into the quadrangle was open, \ you joy of the possession of 'so much sluggish 
and Olivia swept across the broad threshold, ! water and so many square miles of swamp and 
haughty and self-possessed, very stately-looking f fen.' _, 

in her long black garments. She still wore? ' But what then?' Mary asked, wonderingiy. 
mourning for her dead husband. What induce- \ 'What then? Do you know, Polly darling, 
ment had she ever had to c^st otF that sombre I that if I ask you to marry me people will call me 
attire? What need to trick herself out in gay a fortune-hunter, and declare that I came to 
colors? What loving eyes would be charmed by ' Marchmont Towers bent upon stealing its heir- 
her splendor? She '.vent out of the door, across .' ess's innocent heart before she had learned the 
the quadrangle, under a stone archway, and into J value of the estate that must go along with it? 
the low stunted wood, which was gloomy even in God knovvs they'd wrong me, Polly, as cruelly as 
the. summer time. The setting sun was shining ever an honest. man was wronged; for, so long as 
upon the western- front of the Towers; but here ' I have mohey to pay my tailor and tobacconist- 
all seemed cold and desolate. The damp mists and I've more than enough for both of them — I 
were-rising from the sodden ground beneath the want nothing further of the world's wealth. 
trees. The frogs were croaking down by the! What should I do.with "all this swamp and fen, 
river-side. With her small, white teeth set, and ', Miss Marchmont — with all that horrible compli- 
her breath coming in fitful gasps, Olivia March- ■ cation of expired leases to be renewed, and in- 
mont hurried to the water's edge, winding in and j come-taxes to be appealed against, that rich peo- 
out between the trees, tearing her black dress J pie have to endure? If you were not rich, 
'among the brambles, scorning ail beaten paths, ) Polly, I — ' 

heedless where she trod, so long as she made her < He stopped and laughed, striking the toe of his 
way speedily to the spot she wanted to reach. \ boot among the weeds, and knocking the pebbles 

At last the black sluggish river and the old | into the water. The woman crouching in the 
boat-house came in sight, between a long vista i shadow of the archway listened with whitened 
of ugly distorted trunks aiid gnarled branches of \ cheeks and glaring eyes; listened as she might 
pollard oak and willow'. The building v, as dreary I have listened *o the sentence of her death, drink- 
and dilapidated looking, for the improvements ', ing in every syllable, in her ravenous desire to 
commenced by Edward Arundel five years- ago ] lose no breath that told her of her anguish. 
had never been fully carried out; but it was suffi- j * If I were not rich !' murmured Mary; ' what 
ciently substantial, and bore no traces of positive i if I were not rich?' 

decay. Down by the water : s edge there was a; ' I should tell you how dearly I love you, Polly, 
great cavernous recess for the shelter of the < and ask you to be my wife by-and-by.' 
boats, and above this there was a pavilion, built ' The girl looked up at him for a few moments 
of brick and stone,, containing two decent-sized Jm silence, shyly at first, and then more boldly, 
chambers, with latticed windows overlooking the i with a beautiful light kindling in her eyes, 
river. A flight of stone steps with an iron balus- i" ' I love you dearly,' too, Mr. Arundel,' she 
trade led up to the door of this *pavilion, which ! said, at last; ' and I would rather you had my 
was supported upon the solid- side-walls of the < money than .any one else in the world; a'nd 
boat-house below. , J there was something in papa's will that made me 

In the stillness of the summer twilight Olivia , think — ' 
heard the voices of those whom she came to seek, j ' He would wish this, Polly,' cried the young 
They were standing down by the edge of the wa- j man, clasping the trembling little figure to his 
ter, upon a narrow pathway that rah along by breast. ' Mr. Paulette sent me a copy of the 
the' sedgy brink of the river, and only a few paces J will , Polly, when he sent my diamond ring; and 
from the pavilion. The door of the boat-house I think there were some words in it that hinted 

shadowy recess. The door that faced the river j of a helpless girl. God knows I will try 1 
had fallen from its rusty hinges, and the slimy j worthy of such_a trust, Mary dearest; God knows 
wood-work lay in ruins upon the threshold of the i I will be faithful to my promise, made nine years 
dark recess. -Sheltered by the stone archway J ago. ' 

that had once been closed by this door, Olivia \ The woman listening in the dark archway sank 
listened to the voices beside the still water. > down upon the damp flags at her feet, among the 

Mary Marchmont was standing close to the > slimy rotten wood and rusty iron nails and binges, 
liver's edge; 'Edward stood beside her, leaning She sat there for a long time, not unconscious, 
against the trunk of a willow that grew close to but quite motionless, her white face leaning 
the water. \ \ against the moss-grown arch, staring blankly out 

'My childish darling,' the young man mur- < of the black shadows. She sat there and listened, 
mured, as if in reply to something his companion j while the lovers talked in low tender murmurs of 
had said, ' and so you think, because you are the sorrowful past and of the unknown future; 
simple-minded and innocent, I am not to love { the beautiful untrodden region, m which they 


Were to go hand in hand through all the long ! . And then she pictured to herself the life that 
years of quiet happiness between that moment i might have been hers if Edward Arundel had 
and the grave. She sat and listened till the'; loved her. How good she would have been! 
moonlight faintly shimmered upon the water, and j The hardness of her iron nature would have been 
the footsteps of the lovers died away upon the j melted and subdued 'in the depth of her love ana 
narrow pathway by which they went back to the J tenderness for him.' She would have learned to 
house. _ : De loving and tender to others. Her wealth of 

Olivia Marchniont did not move until an hour ^(Section for him would have overflowed in gen- 
after they had gone. Then she -raised, herself ; tleness and consideration for every creature- in 
with an effort, and walked with stiffened limbs I the universe. The lurking bitterness which had 
slowly and painfully to the house, and to her own (lain hidden in her heart ever since she had first 
room, where she locked her door and flung her- ; ioved Edward Arundel,, and 'first discovered his 
self upon the ground in the darkness. ' indifference to her; and "the poisonous envy of 

Mary came to her to ask why she did not come ; happier women, who had loved and were be- 
to the drawing-room, and Mrs. Marchmont an- ; loved— would have been blotted away. Her 
swered,with a hoarse voice, that she was ill, and ^whole nature would have undergone a wondrous 
wished to be alone. Neither Mary nor the old ^transfiguration, purified and exalted by the 
woman-servant who had nursed Olivia, and bad < strength of her affection. All this might have 
some little influence over her, could get any other ; come to pass if he had loved her— if he had only 
answer than this. ;, loved her. But a pale-faced child had come be- 

i , tween her and this redemption, and there was no- 

-*<>♦■ - thing left for her but despair. 

Nothing but despair? Yes; perhaps something 
further — revenge. 
CHAPTER XIV But this last idea took no'tangible shape. She 

driven away. 0D ^ knew tDat ' n ^& black darkness of the gulf 

into which her soul had gone down there was, far 

Mary Marchmont and Edward Arundel were ; away somewhere, one ray of lurid light. She 
happy. They were happy; and how should they i only knew this as yet, and that she hated Marv 
guess at the tortures of that desperate woman, : Marcb/nont with a read and wicked hatred. If 
whose benighted soul was plunged in a black gulf she could have thought meanly of Edward Arun- 
of horror by reason of their innocent love ? How;, del — if she could have believed him to be ac- 
should these two— very children in their igno- ; tuated by mercenary motives in his choice of the 
ranee of all stormy passions, all direful emo- < orphan girl — she might have taken some comfort 
tionsT-know, that in the darkened chamber; from the thought of his unworthiness, and of 
where Olivia Marchmont lay, suffering under [ Mary's probable sorrow in the days to come. But 
some vague illness, for which the Swampington ! she ctntid not think this. Little as the young sol- 
doctor was fain to prescribe quinine, in utter un- ; dier had said in .the summer twilight beside the 
consciousness as to the real nature of the disease ; river, there had been that in his tones and looks 
which he was called upon to cure — how should ; that had convinced the wretched watcher of his 
they know that in that gloomy chamber a wicked : truth. Mary might have been deceived by the 
heart was abandoning itself to all the devils that ! shallowest pretender; but Olivia's eyes devoured 
had so long held patient watch for this day ?, ; every glance; Olivia's greedy ears drank in every 

Yes, the struggle was over. Olivia March- < tone; and she fenew 'that Edward Arundel loved 
mont flung aside the cross she had borne in dull, : her step-daughter. 

mechanical obedience, rather than in Christian ; She knew this, and she hated Mary March- 
love and truth. Better to have'been sorrowful ; mont. What had she done, this girl who had 
Magdalene, forgiven for her love and tears, than : never kown what it was to fight a battle with 
this cold, haughty, stainless woman, who had , her own rebellious heart — what had she done 
never been able to learn the sublime lessons ': that all this wealth of love and happiness should 
which so many sinners have taken meekly to j drop into her lap unsought — comparatively un- 
heart. The religion which was wanting in the i valued, perhaps. 

vital principle of Christianity, the faith which j John Marchmont's widow lay in her darkened 
showed itself only in dogged obedience, failed ; chamber, thinking over these things; no longer 
this woman in the hour of her agony. Her pride \ flghfing the battle with her own heart, but utterly 
arose; the defiant spirit of the fallen angel as- abandoning herself to her desperation — reckless" 
serted its gloomy grandeur. 'hardened, impenitent. 

' What have I done that I should suffer like • Edward Arundel could not very well remain 
this?' she thought. ' What am I that an empty- j at the Towers while the reputed illness of his 
headed soldier should despise me, and that I ; hostess kept her to her room. He went over to 
should go mad because of his indifference? Is ; Swampincton, therefore, upon a dutiful visit to 
this the recompense for my long years of obe- ; his uncle; but rode to the Towers every day to 
dience? Is this the reward Heaven bestows upon ! inquire very particularly after his cousin's pro- 
me for my life of duty ? ! gress, and to dawdle on the sunny western ter- 

She remembered the histories of other wo- : race with Mary Marchmont. 
men — women who had gone their own way and Their innocent happiness needs little descrip- 
had been happy; and a darker question arose in tion. Edward Arundel retained a good deal of 
her mind, almost the question which Job asked in that boyish chivalry which had made him so 
his agony. . eager to become the little girl's champion in the 

' Is there neither truth nor justice in the deal- , days gone by. Contact with the world ^iad not 
ings of God, she thought. 'Is it useless to he \ much sullied the freshness of the young man's 
obedient and submissive, patient and untiring?; spirit. He loved .his innocent childish com 
Has all my life been a great mistake, which is to ; panion with the purest and truest devotion • and he 
end in confusion and despair?' was proud of the recollection that in the day of 


his poverty John Marchmont had chosen Mm as 'for her pleasure. He talked to her of the Indian 
the future shelterer of this tender blossom. campaign; and she asked a hundred questions 

' You must never grow any older or more ' about midnight marches and solitary encamp- 
womanly, Polly,' he said sometimes to the young ments, fainting camels, lurking tigers in the dark- 
mistress of Marchmont Towers. ' Remember ness of the jungle, intercepted supplies of pro- 
that I always love you best when I think of you : vision, stolen ammunition, and all the other de- 
as the little girl in the shabby pinafore, who tails of the war. > 

poured out my tea for me one bleak December , Olivia arose at last, before the Swampington 
morning in Oakley Street.' ; surgeon's saline draughts and quinine mixtures 

They talked a great deal of 'John Marchmont. : had subdued the fiery light in her eyes, or cooled 
It was such a happiness to Mary to be able to ; the raging fever that devoured her. She arose be- 
talk unreservedly of her father to some one who ; cause she could no longer lie still in her desola- 
had loved and comprehended him. ; tion, knowing that for two hours in each long sum- 

' My step-mama was very good to poor papa, ; mer's day Edward Arundel and Mary Marchmont 
you know, Edward,' she said; ' and of course he ; could he happy together in spite of her. She 
was very grateful to her; but I don 'f think he. came down stairs, therefore, and renewed her 
ever loved her quite as he loved you. You were ,■ watch, chaining her step-daughter to her side, and 
the friend of his poverty, Edward; he never for- 'interposing herself forever between the lovers, 
got that.' " The widow arose from her sick-bed an altered 

Once, as they strolled side by side together / woman, as it appeared to all who knew her. A 
upon the terrace in the warm summer noontide, ; mad excitement seemed to have taken sudden 
Mary Marchmont put her little hand through her ' possession of her. She flung off her mourning 
lover's arm, and looked up shyly in his face. ; garments, and" ordered silks and laces, velvets and 
' Did papa say that, Edward ?' she whispered; ', satins from a London milliner; she complained of 
'did he really say that?' ' : the absence of society, the monotonous dullness 

'Did he really say what, darling?' ' of her Lincolnshire life; and, to the surprise of 

' That he left me to you as a legacy?' ; every one, sent out cards of invitation for a ball 

'He did indeed Polly,' answered the young ; at the Towers in honor of Edward Arundel's re- 
man; ' I'll bring you the letter to-morrow.' ; turn to England. She seemed to beseized witha 
And the next day he showed Mary Marahmont / desire to do something, she scarcely cared what, 
the yellow sheet of letter-paper and the faded ' to disturb the even current of her days, 
writing, which had once been black and wet un-J During the brief interval between Mrs. March- 
der her dead father's hand. Mary looked through ' mont's leaving her room and the evening appointed 
her tears at the old familiar Oakley Street ad- \ for the ball, Edward Arundel found-no very, con- 
dress, and the date of the very day upon which ' venient opportunity of informing his cousin of 
Edward Arundel had breakfasted in the shabby; the engagement entered into between himself and 
lodging. Yes; there were the words': *' The ' Mary. He had no wish to hurry this disclosure; 
legacy of a child's helplessness is the only be- ', for there was something in the orphan girl's child- 
quest I can'leave to the only friend I have.' ' ishness and innocence that kept all definite ideas 
'And you shall never know what it is to be '/ of an early marriage very far away from her lover's 
helpless while I am near you, Polly darling,' the ' mind. He wanted to go back to India and win more 
soldier said, as he refolded his dead friend's epis- ', laurels, to lay at the feet of the mistress of March- 
tie. ' You may defy your enemies henceforward, ! mont Towers. He wanted to make a name for 
Mary, if you have any enemies. Oh, by-the-by, ) himself, which should cause the world to forget 
you have never heard anything of that Paul ; that he was a younger son — a name that the vil- 
Marchmont, I suppose?' ' est tongue would never dare to blacken with the 
' Papa's cousin, Mr. Marchmont the artist?' > epithet of fortune-hunter. 

'Yes.' ,' The young man was silent therefore, waiting 

' He came to the reading of papa's will.' : for a fitting opportunity in which to : speak to 

' Indeed! and did you see much of him?' ) Mary's step-tnother. Perhaps he rather dreaded 

'Oh, no, very little. I was ill, you know,' the 'the idea of discussing his attachment with Olivia; 

girl added, the tears rising to her eyes at the re-' for she had looked at him with cold angry eyes, 

collection of that bitter time. ' I was ill, and I ' and a brow as black as thunder, upon those occa- 

didn't notice any thing. I know that Mr, March- ' sions on which she had sounded him as to his feel- 

mont talked to me a little;'but I can't remember I ings for Mary. 

what he said.' : 'She wants poor Polly to marry some grandee, 

'And he has never been here since ?' I dare say,' he thought; 'and will do all she can 

'Never.' !, to oppose my suit. But her trust will cease with 

Edward Arundel shrugged his shoulders. This \ Mary's majority; and I don't want my confiding 

Paul Marchmont could not be such a designing j little darling to marry me until she is old enough' 

villain, after all, or surely he Would have tried to < to choose for herself, and to choose wisely. She 

push his acquaintance with his rich cousin. willbeone-and-twenty in three years; and what are 
'I dare say John's suspicion of him was only j three yetfrs ? I would wait as long as Jacob for 
one of the poor fellow's morbid fancies,' he my pet, and serve my fourteen years' apprentice- 
thought. 'He was always full of morbid fan- ship under Sir Charles Napier, and be true to her 
c j es .' all the time.' 

Mrs. Marchmont's rooms were in the western 

front of the house; and through her open windows /Olivia Marchmont hated her step-daughter.— 

she heajd the fresh young voices of the lovers, as Mary was not slow" to perceive the change in the 

they strolled up and down the terrace. The cav- widow's manner toward her. It had always been 

alrv officer was content to carry a watering-pot cold, and sometimes severe; but it was now al- 

full of water for the refreshment of his young, most abhorrent. I he girl shrank appalled from 

mhtres's geraniums in the stone vases on the the sinister ^J^t^P^t^ S^J eyes, 
Stride, and to do other under-gardener's work! as they followed her unceasingly, dogging her 


footsteps with a hungry and evil gaze. The gen- £ did rooms, on all that grassy fiat, dry and- burning, 
tie girl wondered what she had done to offtjnd her ', under the blazing summer sun. She had wandered 
guardian, and then, being unable to think of any ;' out upon the waste of barren turf, with her head 
possible delinquency by which she might have in- ', bared to the hot sky, and had loitered here and 
curred Mrs. Marchmont's displeasure, was fain ', there by the 'still pools, looking gloomily at the 
to attribute the change in Olivia's manner to the ) black tideJeSs water, and wondering what the 
irritation consequent upon her illness, and was / agony of drowning was like. Not that she had 
thus more gentle and more submissive than of old; '■, any thought of killing herself. No; the idea of 
enduring cruel looks, returning no answer to bit- ? death was horrible to .her; for after her death Ed- 
terspeeches, but strivingtoconciliatethesupposed ', ward and Mary would be happy. Could she ever 
invalid by her sweetness and obedience. ) find rest in the grave knowing this ? Could there 

But the girl's amiability only irritated the de- '', be any possible extinction that would blot out her 
spairi'ng woman. Her jealousy fed upon every ', jealous fury ? Surely the fire of her hate — it was 
charm of the rival who had supplanted her. That ) no longer love, but hate, that raged in her heart 
fatal passion fed upon Edward Arundel's every ', — would defy annihilation, eternal by reason of 
look and tone, upon the quiet smile which rested Jits intensity. When the dinner-hour came, and 
on Mary's face as the girl sat over her embroid- ' Edward and his uncle arrived at the Towers, 
efy, in meek silence thinking of her lover. The ;• Olivia Marchmont's pale face was lit up with 
self-tortures which Olivia Marchmont inflicted ■; eyes that flamed like lire; but she took her aocus- 
upon herself were so horrible to bear, that she ' tomed place very quietly, with her father opposite 
turned, with a mad desire for relief, upon those , to her, and Mary and Edward upon either side, 
she haa the power to torture. Day by day and ', 'I'm sure you're ill, Livy,' the young man said; 
hour by hour she contrived to distress the gentle ; 'you're as pale as death, and your hand is dry 
girl, who had so long obeyed her, now by a word, ) and burning. I'm afraid you've not been^obedi- 
now by a look, but always with thatsubtle power ent to the Swampington doctor.' 
of aggravation which women possess in such an > Mrs. Marchmont shrugged her shoulders with a 
eminent degree; until Mary Marchmont's life be-; short contemptuous laugh. 

came a burden to her — or would have so become, 'lam well enough,' she said. 'Who cares whe- 
but for that inexpressible happiness, of which her ther I am well orill ?' 

tormentor could not deprive! her — the joy she felt Her father looked up at her in mute surprise. 
in her knowledge of Edward Arundel's love. The bitterness of her tone startled and alarmed 

She was very careful to keep the secret of her him; but Mary never lifted her eyes. It was in 
step-mother's altered manner from the young sol- ' such a tone as this that her step-mother had spo- 
dier. Olivia was his cousin, and he had said long : ken constantly of late. 

ago that she was to love her. Heaven knows she \ But two or three hours afterward, when the 
had tried to do so, and had failed most miserably; j flats before the house were silvered by the moon- 
but her belief, in Olivia's goodness was still un- light, and the long ranges of windows glittered 
shaken. If Mrs. Marchmont 'was now irritable, ■ with the lamps within, Mrs. Marchmont emerged 1 
capricious, and even cruel, there was doubtless : from her dressing-room another creature, as it 
some good reason for the alteration in her con- <; seemed. 

duct, and it was Mary's duty to be patient. The; Edward and his uncle were walking up and down 
orphan girl had learned to suffer quietly when the ' the great oaken baaqueting-hall, which had been 
great affliction of her father's death had fallen '; decorated and fitted up as a ball-room for the oc- 
upon*her;, and she suffered so quietly now, that ; casion, when Olivia crossed the wide threshold of 
even her lover failed to perceive any symptoms of: the chamber. The young officer looked up with 
her distress. How could she grieve him by telling ; an involuntary expression of surprise. In all his 
him of her sorrows, when his very presence.) acquaintance with his cousin he had never seen 
brought such unutterable joy to her ? her look thus. The gloomy, black-robed woman 

So, on the morning of the ball at Marchmont was transformed into a Semiramis. She wore a 
Towers— the first entertainment of the kind that / voluminous dress of a deep claret-colored velvet 
had been given in that grim Lincolnshire mansion ', that glowed with the warm hues of rich wine in 
since young Arthur Marchmont's untimely death :• the lamplight. Her massive hair was coiled in a 
— Mary sat in her room, with her old friend Far- \ knot at the back of her head, and diamonds glit- 
mer Pollard's daughter — who was now Mrg..Ma- { tered amidst the thick bands that framed her 
pleson, the wife of the most prosperous carpenter broad white brow. Her stern classical beauty 
•in Kemberling. ' Hester had come up to the Tow- i was lit up by the unwonted splendor of her dress 
ers to pay a dutiful visit to her young patroness; ; and asserted itself as obviously as if she had said' 
and upon this particular occasion Olivia had not I 'Am Iafwoman to be despised for the love of a 
cared to prevent Mary and her humble friend pale-faced child?' 

spending half an hour together.- Mrs. March- Mary Marchmont came into the room a few 
hiont roamed from room to room upon this day. minutes after her step-mother. Her lover ran to 
with a perpetual restlessness. Edward Arundel j welcome her, and looked fondly at her simple 
was to dine at the Towers, and was to sleep there ; dress of shadowy white crape, and the pearl cir- 
after the ball. He was to drive his uncle over > clet that crowned her soft brown hair. The pearls 
from Swampington, as the Rector had promised she wore upon this night had been given to her bv 
to show himself for an hour or two at his daugh- ) her father on her fourteenth birthday, 
ter's entertainment. Mary had met her step- ; Olivia watched the young man as he bent over 
mother several times that morning in the corridors ; Mary Marchmont. 

and on the staircase; but the widow had passed He wore his uniform to-night for the special 
her in silence, with a dark face, and a shivering, gratification of his young mistress, and he was 
almost abhorrent gesture. looking down with a tender smile at' her 'childish 

The bright July day dragged itself out at last, j admiration of the bullion ornaments upon his coat 
with Hideous slowness for the desperate woman, and the decoration he had won in India* 
who eould not find peace or rest in all those splen- ! The widow looked from the two lovers fa 


antique glass upon an ebony bureau in a niche op- ; you so pretty, my darling,' he said, as he stood 
posite to her, which reflected her own face— her j with Mary in the embrasure of the window, 
own face, more beautiful than she had ever seen ', ' You look like.Titania, the queen of the fairies, 
it before, with a feverish glow of vivid crimson •,' Polly, witli your cloudy draperies and crown of 
lighting up her hollow cheeks. . ;! pearls.' 

'Lmight have been beautiful if h% had loved \ The window was open, and Captain Arundel 
me, she thought; and then she turned to he'r father, j looked wistfully at the broad flagged quadrangle, 
and began to talk to him of his parishioners, the J beautified by the light of the full Summer moon, 
old pensioners upon her bounty, whose little his- >) He glanced back into the room; it was nearly 
tones were so hatefully familiar to her. Once ;,' empty now; and Mrs. Marchmont was standing 
more she made a feeble effort to tread the old J near the principal doorway, bidding the last of 
hackneyed pathway; which she had toiled upon <: her guests good-night. 

with such weary feet; but she could not— she \ 'Come into the qua'drangle, Polly,' he said, 
could not. After a few minutes she turned away ', ' and take a turn with me under the colonnade, 
abruptly from her father, and seated herself in a at was a cloister once, 1 dare say, in the good old 
recess of the window, from which she could see > days, before Harry the Eighth was king; and 
Ld ward and Mary. . f cowled monks have paced up and down under its 

But Mrs. Marchmoct's duties as hostess soon ^shadow, muttering mechanical prayers, as the 
demanded her attention. The county families be- < ; beads of "their rosaries dropped slowly through 
gan to arrive, the sound of carriage-wheels J their shriveled old fingers. Come out into the 
seemed perpetual upon the crisp gravel-drive be- ^quadrangle, Polly; all the people we' know or 
fere the western front, the names of half the > t care about are gone; and we'll go out and walk 
great people in Lincolnshire were shouted by the ' in the'moonlight, as true lovers ought.' 
old servants in the hall. The band in the music- ? The soldier led his young companion across 
gallery struck up a quadrille, and Edward Arun- / the threshold of the window, and out into a 
del had the youthful mistress of the mansion to ■' cloister-like colonnade that ran along one side of 
her place in the dance. t, the house. The shadows of the Gothic pillars 

To Olivia that long night seemed all glare and J were black upon the moonlit flags of thequadran- 
noise and confusion. She did the honors of the f, r| e> which was as light now as in the day; but a 
■ball-room, she received her guests, she meted oui ( pleasant obscurity reigned in the sheltered col- 
due attention to all; for she had been accustomed J onnade. 

from her earliest girlhood to the stereotyped round / , T think this little bit of pre . L utheran masonry 

of country society. She neglected no duty; butj is the best of aid your possessions, Polly,' the 

she did all mech a n, ca ii yj sca r C ely knowing what < y0U ng man said ,Taugb.iDg. 'By-and-by, when I 

she said or did in the feverish tumult of he # r soul. , come home from India a general, as I mean to 

Yet amidst all the bewilderment of her senses, d Miss Marohtaont befor | t ask you to become 

in all the confusion of her thoughts, two figures j Mr8 . Arundel, I shall stroll up and down here in 

were always before her. Wherever Edward < the stm summer eveni £ ki cher oots. 

Arunde and Mary Marchmont went her eyes fol-, Y ou will let me smoke out of doors, won't you, 

owed them, her fevered imagination pursued < Polly ? But suppose I should leave some of my 

hem. Once, and once only, in the course of that , imb J s on the h ™ ks of the Sutlej and come H J _ 

long night .she spoke to her st»p-daughter. t ; i Dg home to you with a wooden leg,' would you 

« How often do you mean to dance with Cap- ha ° ve me ^ M or wou]d y0 u 

tain Arundel, Miss Marchmont?' she said: ^ with ignominy from' ' 

wonderment as to tne reason 01 Mrs. March- > that giory in the abstract would have very little 
mont's angry tone. ; attraction for you.' 

Edward and Mary were standing m one of the > ., ,, , * , , , . * 

deep embayed windows of the banqueting-hall f Muj Marchmont looked up at her lover with 
when the dancers began to disperse, long after < widely-opened and wondering eyes, and the 
supper. The girl had been very happy that even- ) cIas P of her hand t'gh'ened a little upon his arm. 
ing, in spite of her step-mother's bitter words? ' There is nothing that could ever happen to 
and disdainful glances. For almost the first time ; you that would make me love you less now,' she 
in her life the young mistress of Marchmont ; said, naively. ' I dare say at first I liked jou a. 
Towers hid felt the contagious influence of other ' little because you were handsome, and different 
people's happiness. The brilliantly-lighted ball- '. to every one else I had ever seen. You were so 
room, the splendid dresses of the dancers, the < very handsome, you know,' she added, apologeti- 
joyous music, the low sound of suppressed laugh- ( cally; ' but it was not because of that only that 1 
ter, the bright faces which smiled' at each other \ loved you; I loved you because papa told me you 
upon every side, were as new as anything in fairy- \ ,v ere good and generous, and his true friend when 
land to this girl, whose narrow life had been \ he was in cruel need of a friend. Yes, you were 
overshadowed by the gloomy figure of her step- ! his friend at school, when your .cousin, Martin 
mother forever interposed between her and the \ Mostyn, and the other pupils sneered at him and 
outer world. The young spirit arose and shook ' ridiculed him. How can I ever forget that, Ed- 
off its fetters, fresh and radiant as the butterfly \ ward? How can I ever love you enough to re- 
that escapes from its chrysaiis-shell. The new S pay you for that?' In the enthusiasm of^her in- 
light of happiness illumined the orphan's delicate < ' nocent devotion she lifted her pure young brow, 
face, until Edward Arundel besran to wonder at < and the soldier bent down and kissed that white 
her loveliness, as he had wondered once before \ throne of all virginal thoughts, as the lovers 
that night at the fiery splendor of his cousin stood :side by side, half .in the moonlight, half in 
Olivia ♦ • the, shadow, 

« I had no idea that Olivia was so handsome, or ! Olivia Marchmont came into the embrasure of 


the open window, and took her place there to < seen, before— the horrible darkness that over- 
watch them. shadows the souls of the lost. * 

She came again to the torture. From the re- ( ' Mamma !' the girl cried, clasping her hands 
motest end of the long banqueting-room she had \ in sudden affright, ' mamma! why do you look at 
seen the two figures glide out into the moonlight. > me like that? Why have you been so changed to 
She had seen them, and had gone on with fieri me lately? I can riot tel# you how unhappy I 
courteous speeches, and had repeated her for- \ have been. Mamma, mamma, what have I done 
mula of hospitality, with the fire in her heart de- '( to offend you ?' 

vonring and consuming her. She came again, to ( Olivia Marchmont grasped the tremblinghands 
watch and to listen, and to endure her self-im- < uplifted entreatingly to her, and held them in her 
posed agonies; as mad and foolish in her fatal own— held them as if in a vice. She stood thus, 
passion as spme besotted wretch who should come I with her step-daughter pinioned in her grasp, and 
willingly to the wheel upon which his limbs bad her eyes fixed upon the girl's face. Two streams 
been well-nigh broken, and supplicate for a re- of lurid light seemed to emanate from those di- 
newal of the torture. She stood rigid and mo- ( lated gray'eyes; two spots of crimson blazed ia 
tionless in the shadow of the arched window, (.the widow's hollow cheeks. 

hiding herself, as she had hidden in the dark J . ' IVhat have you doner' she. cried. 'Do you 
cavernous recess by the river; she stood and ( think I liave toiled for nothing to do the duty 
listened to all the childish babble of the lovers as ( which I promised my dead husband to perform 
they loitered up and down the vaulted cloister, ( for your sake? Has all my care of you been go. 
How she despised them in the haughty superi- ( little, that i am to stand by now and be silent, 
ority of an intellect which might have planned a ( when I see what you are? Do you think that I 
revolution or saved a sinking state ! What bitter ( am blind, or deaf, or besotted, that you defy me 
scorn curled her lip as iheir'foolish talk fell upon ', and outrage me, day by day, and hour by hour, 
her ear! They talked like fJorizel and Perdita, j by your conduct?' 

like Romeo and Juliet, like Paul and Virginia, ( ' Mamma, mamma, what do you mean ?' 
and they talked a great deal of nonsense, no ( ' Heaven knows how rigidly you have been 
doubt; soft, harmonious foolishness, with little ( educated; how carefully you have been secluded 
more meaning in it than there is in the cooing of ', from all society, and sheltered from every influ- 
doves, but tender and musical, and more than J ence, lest harm or danger should come to you. I 
beautiful, to each other's ears. A tigress, fam-^have done my duty, and i wash my hands of you. 
ished and desolate, and but lately robbed of her J The debasing taint of your mother's low breed- 
whelps, would not be Jikely to listen very jaa- {ing reveals itself in your every action. You run 
tiently to the communing of a pair of prosperous Rafter my cousin Edward Arundel, and advertise 
ring-doves. Olivia Marchmont listened with her (your admiration of him to himself, and every 
brain on fire, and the spirit of a murderess raging (creature who knows you. You fling yourself into 
in her breast. What was she that she should be (his arms, and offer him yourself and your for- 
patient? All the world was lost to her. She was \ tune; and in your low cunning try to keep the se- 
thirty years of age, and she had never yet won (cret from me, your protectress and guardian, ap- 
the love of any human being. She was thirty ( pointed by the dead father whom you pretend to 
years of as;e, and all the sublime world of affec-(have loved so dearly.' 

tion was a dismal blank for her. From the outer ( Olivia Marchmont still held her step-daugh- 
darkness in which she stood she looked with wild; ter's wrists in her iron grasp. The girl stared 
and ignorant yearning into that bright region ( wildly, at her with her eyes distended, her trem- 
which her accursed foot had never trodden, and ( bling lips apart. She began to think that the 
saw Mary Marchmont wandering hand in hand (widow had gone mad. 

with the only man she could have loved, the only ( ' I blush for you, I am ashamed of you,' cried 
creature who had ever had the power to awake \ Olivia, it seemed as if the torrent of her words 
the instinct of womanhood in her soul. ( burst forth almost in spite of herself. There is 

She stood and waited until the clock in the {not a village-girl in Kemberling, there is not a 
quadrangle struck the fh>t quarter after three :( scullery-maid in this house, who would have be- 
the moon was fading out, and the colder light of(haved as you have done. I*have watched you, 
early morning glimmered in the eastern sky. \ Mary Marchmont, remember, and I know "all. I 

'I mustn't keep you out here any longer, Polly,' < know your. wanderings down by the river-side. I 
Captain Arundel said, pausing near the window. ( heard you. Yes, by the Heaven above me, I 
' It's getting cold, my dear, and it's high time '. heard you offer yourself to my cousin.' 
the mistress of Marchmont should, retire to her( Mary drew herself up with an indignant ges- 
stony bower. Good-night, and God bless you, J ture, and over the whiteness of her face there 
my darling! I'll stop in the quadrangle and ( swept a sudden glow of vivid crimson, that faded 
smoke a cheroot before I go to my room. Your) as quickly as it came. Her submissive nature re- 
step-mamma will be wondering what has become j volted against her step-mother's horrible tyr- 
of you, Mary, and we shall have a lecture upon janny. The dignity of innocence arose and as- 
the proprieties to-morrow; so, once more, good-'. : serted itself against Olivia's shameful upbraiding 
night.' _ | 'If 1 offered myself to Edward Arundelj 

He kissed the fair young brow under the coro-J mamma,' she s.aid, ' it was because we love each 
nal of pearls, slopped to watch Mary while she; other very truly, and because I think and believe 
cro?sed the threshold of the open window, and ', papa wished me to marry his old friend.' 
then strolled away into ttie flagged court with his. ( 'Became toe love each other very truly!' 
cigir-case in his harid. _ ( Oliria echoed, in a tone of unmitigated scorn' 

, Olivia Marchmont stood a fvw pmt-es from the)' You can answer for Captain Arundel's heart I 
window when her step-daughter entered the ; suppose, then, as well as for your own,? You 
room, and Mary paused involuntarily, terrified by;: must have a tolerably good opinion of "yourself 
the cruel aspect of the face that frowned upon < Miss Marchmont, to be able to venture so much' 
her: terrified by something; that she had never? Bah !' sh« cried, suddenly; vitU | flijd ft fo&1 «>' 



Jure of her head; < do you think jour pitiful face t in r. low dreamy tone, looking, rut at her step- 
has won Edward Arundel? Do you think he has ; mother, but straight before her into vacancy, as 
not had women fifty times your superior, in every : if her (earless eyes were transfiaed by the vision 
quality of mind and bodv, at his feet out vender \of ail her scattered hopes, filling; with wreck and 
in India.? Are -you idiotic and besotted enough Iniin the desolate fore-ground of a blank future, 
to believe that it is anything but' your fortune this; 'I d^re say you arc> right, mamma; it was very 
man cares for? Do you know the viie things 'foolish of me to think that Edwaixl— that Captain 
people will do, the lies they will tell, the base J Arundel could care for me, for— for— nvy own 
comedies of guilt and falsehood they will act, for ', 
the lore of eleven thousand a year? And you '' 
think that he lores you! Child, dupe, fool,' are ' any good to me, you know, mamma; ana 

fortune, I should 
ley will rever be 
he was 

yon weak enough to be deluded by a fortune-;, so "kind to papa in his poverty— so kmd. I will 
hunter's pretty pastoral flatteries? Are you weak '■ never, never believe anything against hinu but [ 
enough to he duped by a man of the worid, worn ' couldn't expect him to love me. I shouldn't have 
out and jaded, no doubt, as to the world's pleas-: offered to be his wife. I ought only to have 
ure»; in debt, perhaps, and in pressing need of';! offered him my fortune.' 

money; who oomes here to try and redeem his J She heard her lover's footstep in the quad- 
fortunes by a marriage with a semi-imbecile Wrangle without, in the s-tillriess of the summer 
heiress?' \ morning, and shivered at the sound. ^ It was less 

Olivia Marchmont released her hold of the ' f than a quarter of an hour sines she had been 
shrinking girl, who seemed to have become trans- ^walking with him up and down the cloistered 
fixed to the spot upon which she stood, a pale J way, in which his footsteps were echoing with' a 
statue of horror and despair. > t hollow sound: and now — Even in the confusion 

The iron will of the strong and resolute wo- J of her anguish Mar.y Marchmont could not help 
man rode rough-shod over the simple confidence (wondering, as she thought in how abort a time 
of the ignorant girl. Until this moment Mary j the happiness of a future might b® swept away 
Mjirchmont had believed in Edward Arundel as ' into chaos. ' , ' 

implicitly as she had trusted in her dead father. J \Good-night, msnima,' she said presently, with 
But now, for the first time, a dreadful region of J an accent of weariness. She did not look at her 
doubt opened before her; the foundations of her I step-mother, who had turned away from her now, 
world reeled beneath her feet. Edward Arundel Sand had walked toward the. open window, but 
a fortune-hunter ! This woman, whom she had > stole quietly from thercom, crowed the ball, and 
obeyed for five weary years, and who had ac- j went up the broad staircase to her own lonely 
quired that ascendancy over her which a deter- '/ chamber. Heiress though she, was, she had no 
mined and vigorous nature must always exercise ^special attendant of her own; .she had the privi- 
over a morbidly sensitive disposition, told her ] lege of summoning Olivia's maid whenever she 
that she had been deluded. This woman' laughed i had need of assistance; but ' he rt timed the sim- 
aloud in bitter scorn of her credulity. This wo- 1 pie habits of her early life, and very rarely trou- 
man, who could have no possible motive- for tor- ] bled Mrs. Marchmont's grim andeiderly Abigail. 
turing her, and who was known to be scrupu-5 Olivia stood looking on 
lously conscientious in all. her dealings, told her, >raiigle; it was broad da 
as plainly as the most .cruel words could tell a /were crowing in the oh 
cruel truth, that her own charms could not have ^singing somewhere -in the 
won Edward Arundel's affection. 5 above Marchmont Tower 

All the beautiful day-dreams of her life rrielted > in the banqueting-room looked wan in. the r/iorn- 
away from her. She had never questioned her- >ing sunshine; the lamps were burning still, fcr 
self as to her worthiness of her lover's devotion", ^the servants waited until Mrs. Marchmont siiouJd. 
She had accepted it as she accepted the sunshine ^have retired before they entered the room. Ld- 
and the starlight, as something beautiful and in- $ ward Arum' el was walking up and down the 
comprehensible, that came to. her by the benefi- ^cloister, smoking his second cigar. 
cence of God, and not through any merits of her 'i He stopped presently, seeing his cousin at the 
own. But as the fab»ic of her happiness dwindled ^window. » ., 

away, the fatal spell exercised over the girl's £ ' What, Livy,' he cried, 'net gone to bed yet.' 
weak nature by Olivia's violent words evoked a ! 

t into tne stony quaa- 
ylight now; the cocks 
'tance, and a sky-lark 
blue heaven, high up 
s. The faded sarlandsi 

hundred doubts. How should he love her? why 
should he love her in preference to every other 
woman in the world ? Set any woman to ask 
herself this question, and you fill her mind with a J young 

No; I am going directly. ' 
' Mary has gone, I hope ?' 
'Yes; she .has gone. Good-night-' 
' Good-morning, my dear Mrs. iYlarcbmcnt, the 
man answered, laughing. 'If the par- 

thousand suspicions, a thousand jealous doubts of j fridges were in I should be^ going out shooting 
her lover, though he were the truest and noblest this lovely morning, instead of going ignomin- 
in the universe. '■ iously to bed, like a worn-out reveler who has 

Olivia Marchmont stood a few paces from her drunk too much sparkling hock. I like the still 
step-daughter, watching her while the black best, by-the-by— the Johannisbergsr, that poor 
shadow of doubt blotted every joy from her J John's predecessor imported from tne Knnae. 
heart, and utter despair crept slowly into her in- j But I suppose there is no help lor it, and i must 
nocent breast. The widow expected that the j go to bed in the face of ad that eastern glory. J. 
girl's self-esteem would assert itself; that she should be mounting for a gallop on the race- 
would contradict ■ and defy the traducer of her course if I were in Calcutta, hut i 11 go to bed, 
lover's truth; but it was Hot so. When Mary Mrs. Marchmont, and humbly await your bresk- 
spoke again her voice was low and subdued, her fast-hour. They're stacking ihe new bay >n the 
manner as submissive as it had been two or three meadows beyond the park, lion t ,ni,. omen u 
years before when she had stood before her step- Oll^-gg, ^ave I'fow frivotonsTd 
mother, waiting to repeat; some difficu| lesson, tien , frown, tooa ^ 

* . * typ say yo« are right, mamma,' She said; \ senseless tms mau 


plunging lier soul ' into an abyss of sin and ruin / come of my mad folly, after all; and I may have 
for his sake; and she hated Rim, and rebelled 'sared this girl from a life of misery by the word* 
against him, because he was so little worthy of/ 1 have spoken to-night.' ' . _ 
the sacrifice. ' The devils — forever, lying in wait for this wo- 

' Good-morning,' she said, abruptly. ' I'm tired/ man, whose gloomy pride rendered her in some, 
to death.' J manner akin to themselves — may have laughed at 

She moved away and left -him. . J her as she argued thus with herself. 

Five minutes afterward he went up the great / She lay down at last to sleep, worn out by the 
■oak staircase after her, whistling a serenade from /excitement of the long night, and to dream hor- 
Fra Diavolo as he went. He was one of those ^rible dreams. The servants, with the exception 
people to whom life seems, allholiday. Younger l / of one who rose betimes to open the great-house, 
son though he was, he had .never knowa any of /slept Jong after the unwonted festival. Edward 
the pitfalls of debt and difficulty into which the ^Arundel slumbered as heavily as any' member of 
junior members of rich families are so apt to J that wearied household; and thus itwas thatthere 
plunge headlong in early youth, and from which / was no one in the way to see a shrinking, trem- 
they emerge r enfeebled and crippled, to endure /bling figure creep down the sunlit staircase, and 
an after-life embittered by all the shabby mise-/ steal across the threshold of the wide hall-door. 
ries . which wait upon aristocratic pauperism./ There was no one to see Mary Marchmont's 
Brave, honorable, and simple-minded, Edward /silent fligftt from the gaunt- Lincolnshire, mansion, 
Arundel had fought the battle of life like a good / in which she had known so little real happiness, 
soldier, and had carried a stainless shield where / There was no one to comfort the sorrow-stricken 
the fight was thickest, and victory hard to win. /girl in her despair and desolation; of spirit. She 
His sunshiny nature won him friends, and his / crept away, like some escaped prisoner, in the 
better qualities them. Young men trusted / early morning, from the. house which the law 
and respected him, and old men, gray in the sir- /called her own. ] 

vice of their country, spoke well of him. His,; And the hand of the woman whom John^Tarch- 
handsGme face was a pleasant decoration at any /mont had chosen to be his daughter's friend arid 
festival; his kindly voice and hearty laugh at a/counseler was the hand which drove that daughter 
dinner-table v/sre as good as the' music in the / from the shelter of her home. The' vpiee-.of her 
gallery atthe end of a banqueting-chamber. /whom the weak father had trusted in, fearful to 

He had that freshness of spirit which is the pe-/ confide his child into the hands of God, but 
culiar gift of some natures; and he had as yet /blindly confident in his own judgment, was the 
never known sprrow, except, indeed, sach tender/ voice which -had^ uttered the lying words, whose 
and compassionate sympathy as he had often felt / every syllable liad been as a separate ', dagger 
for the calamities of others. '/ thrust in the orphan, girl's lacerated heart. It 

Olivia Marchmont heard her cousin's cheery? was her father — her father who had placed this 
tenor voice as he passed her chamber. ' How ; woman over her, and had entailed upon her the 
happy heis !' she thought. ' His very happiness i awful agony that drove her out into an unknown 
is one insult the more to me.' j world, careless whither she went in her despair. 

The widow-paced up and down her room in the 
morning sunshine, thinking of the things she had 

said in the banqueting-hali below, and'bf herj s — ■«■•-«- 

step-daughter's, white despairing face. , What had s 

she done? What was the, extent of the sin she-j 

had committed? Olivia Marchmont asked her-;! CHAPTER XV- 

self these two questions. The old habit of self- ' ,, „ . 

■ ii A. R Y B LETTER 

examination was not quite abandoned yet. She ' t 

sinned, and then set herself to work to try and > t It was past twelve o'clock when Edward Arun- 

justify her .sin. J del strolled into the dining-room. The window* 

'How should he love her?' she thought. 'What' were open, and the scent of the mignonnetteupon 
is there in her pale, unmeaning face, that should ' t the terrace was blown in upon the warm summer 
win the love of a man who despises me ?' i breeze, 

She stopped before a cheval-glass, and sur-< Mrs. Marchmont was sitting at one end Of the 
veyed herself from head to foot, frowning angrily i long table, reading a newspaper. She looked up 
at her handsome image, hating herself for her J as Edward entered the room. She was pale^but 
despised beauty. Her white shoulders looked / not much paler than 'usual. The feverish light 
like stainless marble against the rich ruby dark- j had' faded out of her eyes, -and they looked dim 
ness of her velvet Srsss. She had snatched the / and heavy. 

diamond ornaments from b^r head, and her long/ 'Good-morning, Livy,' the young man said. 
black hair fell about her boJ^m in thick waveless ( ' Mary is not up yet, I suppose?' 
tresses. \ ' I believe not. ' 

' I am handsomer than she is, and cleverer; and j ' Poor little girl ! A long rest will do her good 
I love him better, ten thousand times, than she / after her first ball. How pretty and fairy-like 
loves him,' Olivia Marchmont thought, as she j she looked in her white gauze dress, and with 
turned contemptuously from the glass. 'Is it <; that circlet of pearls round her *oft brown hair ' 
likely, then, that he cares for anything but her Your taste, I suppose, Olivia? She looked like 
fortune ? Any other woman in the world would > a snow-drop among all the other gaudy flowers— 
have argued as I argued to-night. Any woman the roses and tiger-lilies, and peonies and dahlim 
would have believed that she did her duty in That eldest Miss Hickman is handsome but iha'i 
warning this besotted girl against her folly.! so terribly conscious of her attraction! That 
What do I know of Edward Arundel that should / little girl from Swampington with the black rinr 
lead me to think him better or. nobler than other i lets is rather pretty, and Laura Filmer ii a ioll? 
men ? arid how many men sell themselves for the dasking girl ; she looks you full i» the farm mJ* 
love of a woman's wealth ! Perhaps good may \ talks to you about hunting with ai mH«V «Sto 



an eld whipper-in. I don't think much of Major ' have placed it upon a salver before presenting it 

Hawley's three tall, sandy-haired daughters; but to her mistress. 

Fred Hawley's a capital fellow; it's a pity he's a 'Miss Marchmont is not in her room, ma'am,' 

civilian. In short, my dear Olivia, take it alto- she said; 'the bed has not been slept on; and I 

gethef, I think' your ball was a success, and I found this letter, addressed to Captain Arundel, 

hope you'll give us another in the hunting- upon the table.' 

season.' ' " 

Mrs. Marchmont did not condescend to reply 
to her cousin's meaningless rattle. She sighed 
wearily, and began to fill the tea-pot from the 
old-fashioned silver urn. Edward loitered in one 
of the windows, whistling to a. peacock that was 

Olivia's face grew livid; a horrible dread rushed 
into her mind. Edward snatched the letter which 
the servant held toward him. 

'Mary not in her room! What, in Heaven's 
name,, can it mean?' he cried. 

He tore open the letter. The writing was not 
stalking solemnly backward arid forward upon ; easily decipherable for the tears which the orphan 
the stone balustrade. J girl had shed over it: 

' I should like to drive you 'and Mary down to 
the sea-shore, Livy, after breakfast. Will you' 'My own dear Edward, — I have loved you so 
go ?' ; dearly and so foolishly, and you hare been so kind 

Mrs. Marchmont shook her head. ! to me, that 1 have quite forgotten how unworthy 

'I am a great deal too tired to think of going i I am of your affection. But I am forgetful no 
out to-day,' she said, ungraciously. \ longer. Something has happened which has 

'And I never felt fresher in my life,' the young opened my eyes to my own folly — I know. now 
man responded, laughing; 'last night's festivities ; that'you did not love me; that 1 claim to 
seem to have revivified me. I wish Mary would ! your love; no charms or attractions such as so 
come down,' he added, with a' yawn; 'I could i many other women possess, and for which you 
give her another lesson in billiards, at any rate. \ might have loved me. I know this now, dear Ed- 
Poor lktle girl, I'm afraid she'll never make a i ward, and that all my happiness has been a fool- 
cannon.' " ish dream; but do not think that I blame any but 

Captain Arundel sat down to his breakfast, and ' myself for what has happened. Take my for- 
drank the cup of tea poured out for him by Olivia. > tune: long ago, when I was a little girl, I asked 
Had she been a sinful woman of another type, she ; my father to let me share it with you. I ask you 
would have put arsenic into the cup perhaps, and '■ now to take it all, dear friend; and I go away 
so have made an end of the young officer and of ( forever from a house in which I have learnt how 
her own folly. As it was, she only sat by, with j little happiness riches can give. Do not be un- 
her own untasted breakfast before her, and J happy about me. I shall pray for you always- 
watched him while he ate a plateful of raised pie, [ always remembering your goodness to my dead 
and drank his cup of tea, with the healthy appe- j father; always looking back to the day upon which 
tite which generally accompanies youth and a ; you came to see us in our poor lodging. I am very 

good conscience. He sprang up from the table 
directly he had finished his breakfast, and cried 
out, impatiently, 

'What can make Mary so lazy this morning? 
ihe is usually such an early riser. ' 

Mrs. Marchmont rose as her cousin said' this, 
and a vague feeling of uneasiness took possession 
of her mind. She remembered the white face 
which had blanched beneath the angry glare of 
her eyes, the blank look of despair that had come 
over Mary's countenance a few hours before. 

'I will go and call her myself,' she said. 'N-no; 
I'll send Barbara.' She did not wait to ring the 
bell, but went into the hall and called sharply, 
•Barbara! Barbara!' 

A woman came out of a passage leading to the 
housekeeper's room, in answer to Mrs. March-. 
mont's call; a woman of about fifty years of age, 
dressed in gray stuff, and with a grave inscruta- 
ble face, a wooden countenance that gave no to- 
ken of its owner's character. Barbara Simmons 
might have been the best or the worst of women, 
a Mrs. Fry or a Mrs. Brownrigg, for any evidence 1 
her face afforded against either hypothesis. j 

'I want you to go up stairs, Barbara, and call j 
Miss Marchmont,' Olivia said. 'Captain Arun- 

ignorant of all worldly business, but I hope the 
law will let me give you Marehmont Towers and 
all my fortune, whatever it may be. Let Mr. 
Paulette see this latter part of my letter, and let 
him fully understand that I abandon all my rights 
to you from this day. Good-bye, dear friend; 
think of me sometimes, but never think of me 
sorrowfully. Mart Marchmont.' 

This was all. This was the letter which the 
heart-broken gir! had written to her lover. It was 
in no manner different from the letter she might 
have written to him nine years before in Oakley 
Street. It was as childish in its ignorance and 
inexperience; as womanly in its tender self-abne- 

Edward Arundel stared at the simple lines like 
;' a man in a dream, doubtful of his own identity, 
< doubtful of the reality of the world about him, 
( in his hopeless wonderment. He read the letter 
S line by line again and again, first in dull stupefac- 
tion and muttering the words mechanically as he 
read them, with thaifull light of their meaning 
dawning gradually upon him. 

Her fortune ! He had never loved her ! She 
had discovered her own folly ! What did it all 
mean ? What was the clew to the mystery of this 
letter, which had stunned and bewildered him, 

del and I have finished breakfast 

The woman obeyed, and Mrs. Marchmont re- ; unt ;j ' tne yerv power of reflection seemed lost? 
turned to the dining-room, where Edward was j The dawning of that day had seen their parting, 
trying to amuse himself with the Times of the pre- \ an d t j le innocent face had been lifted to his, beam- 
Vious day. S ing with love and trust. And now? — The letter 

Ten minutes afterward Barbara Simmons came dropped from his hand, and fluttered slowly to the 
into the room carrying a letter on a silver waiter, ground. Olivia Marchmont stooped to pick it up. 
Had the document been a death-warrant, or a te'l- Her movement aroused the young man from his 
fgraphfc announcement of the landing of the stupor, ,nd in that »om«t he caught the sight 
French at Dover, the well-trained servant would lot his cousin's livid fac. 

.John marchmont's legacy. 61 

He started as if a thunder-bolt kad burst at 
his feet. An idea, sudden as some inspired reve- 
lation, rushed into his mind. 

'Read that letter, Olivia Marchmont !'he said. 

The woman obeyed. Slowly and deliberately 

repudiated and hated her ? He had never loved 
her. His careless friendliness had made as wide 
a gulf between them as his bitterest hate could 
ever make. Perhaps, indeed, his new-born hate 
would be nearer to love than his indifference had 

she read the childish epistle which Mary had! been, for at lea|t he would think of her now, if 
written to her lover. In every line, in every ; he thought ever so bitterly, 
word, the widow saw the effect of her own deadly J. 'Listen to mej Olivia Marchmont,' the young 
work;' she saw how deeply the poison, dropped I man said, while the woman still crouched upon 
from her own envenomed tongue, had sunk into > the ground near his feet, self-confessed in the 
the innnocent heart of the girl. (abandonment ofher despair. 'Wherever this 

Edward Arundel watched her with flaming J girl may have gone, driven hence by your wick- 
eyes. _. His tall soldierly frame trembled in .the J edness/l wiil follow her. My answer to th'e lie 
intensity of his passion. He followed his cousin's ! you have insinuated against me shall be my im- 
eyes along the lines in Mary Marchmont's letter, ) mediate marriage with my old friend's orphan 
waiting till she should come to the end." Then J chil'd. He. knew me well enough to know how 
the tumultuous storm of indignation burst forth, f far I was above the baseness of a fortune-hunter, 
until Olivia cowered beneath the lightning of her ! and he wished that I should be bis daughter's hus- 
cousin's glance. , J band. I should be a coward and a fool were I to 

Was this the man she had called frivolous Y) be for one moment influenced by such a slander as 
Was this the boyish, .red-coated dancfy she .had ] that which you have whispered in Mary March- 
despised? Was this the curled and perfumed j mont's ear. It is not the individual only whom 
representative of swelldorA, whose talk never i you traduce. You slander the cloth I wear, the 
soared to higher flights than the description of a I family to which I'belong, and my best justifica^ 
day's snipe-shooting, or a run with the Burleigh '' tion will be the contempt- in which I hold your 
fox-hounds? The wicked woman's eyelids drooped j infamous insinuations. When you hear that I 
over her averted eyes; she turned away, shrink- ; have squandered Mary Marchmont's fortune, or 
ing from this fearless accuser. « . I cheated the children 1 pray God s'be may live to 

'.This mischief is some of your work, Olivia ■ bear me, it wiil be time enough for you to tell the. 
Marchmont!' Edward Arundel cried. 'It is you j world that your kinsman, Edward Dangerfield 
who have slandered and traduced me to my dead :'■ Arundel, is a swindler and a traitor.' 
friend's daughter ! Who else would dare accuse : : He strode out into the hall, leaving his cousin 
a Dangerfield Arundel of baseness? v/ho else • on the ground; and she heard his voice outside 
would be vile enough to call my father's son a '-, the dining-room door making inquiries of the ser- 
liar and a traitor? It is you who have whispered j 7ants. Theycould tell him nothing of Mary's flight. 
&hameful insinuations into this^oor child's inno--; Her bed had not been slept in; nobody had seen 
cent ear! 1 scarcely need the confirmation of > her leave the house; it was most lfkely, therefore, 
your ghastly face to tell me this. It is you who J that she had stolen away very early, before the 
have driven Mary Marchmont from the home in \ servants were astir. 

which youshould have sheltered and protected X Where had she gone ? Edward Arundel's heart 
her! You envied her, I suppose— envied her (be iLeat wildly as he asked himself that question. He 
thousands which might have ministered to your { remembered how often he had heard of Women , 
wicked pride and ambition; the pride which has J as yoifng and innocent as Mary Marchmont, who 
always heid you aloof frcim those who might have ■■ had rushed to destroy themselves in a tumult of 
loved you; the ambition that has made, you a ; agony and despair. How easily this poor child, 
soured and discontented woman, whose gloomy J who believed that the dream of happiness was 
face repels all natural affection. You envied the ; forever broken, might have crept down through 
gentle girl whom your dead husband committed ,'■ the gloomy wood to the edge of the sluggish river, 
to your care, and who should have been most sa- i to drop into the weedy stream and hide her sor- 
cred to you. You envied her, and seized the first ; row under the quiet water ! He could fancy her, 
occasion upon which you might stab' her to the ; a new Ophelia, pale and pure as the Danish 
very core of her tender heart.' What other mo- J prince's slighted love, floating past the weird 
tive could you have had for doing this deadly J branches of the willows, borne up for a while by 
wrong ? None, so help me Heaven !' : the current, to sink in silence among the shadows 

No other motive ! Olivia Marchmont dropped | farther down the stream, 
down in a heap 'on-the ground near her cousin's { Be thought of these things in one moment, and 
feet; not kneeling, but groveling upon the car- ' in the next dismissed the thought. Mary's letter 
peted floor, with her hands twisted one in the j breathed the spirit of gentle resignation rather 
other, and writhing convulsively, and with her \ than of wild despair. '] shall always pray for 
head falling forward on her, breast. She uttered iyou; I ehall always remember you, '.she had writ- 
no syllable of self-justification or denial. The j ten. tier lover remembered how much sorrow 
pitiless words rained down upon her provoked no the orphan girl had endured in her brief life. He 
reply. But in the. depths of her heart sounded { looked back to her childish days of poverty and 
the echo of Edward Arundel's words : 'The pride self-de,r.ial;_her early loss of her mother; her 
which has always held you aloof from those who grief at her father's second marriage;' the shock 
might have loved .you,; . a discontented wo- of that beloved father's death. Her sorrows had 
man, whose gloomy face repels all natural affec- followed each other in gloomy succession, with 
tion.' only narrow intervals of 'peace'between each new 

'O God !' she thought, 'he might have loved agony. She was accustomed, therefore, to grief 
me, then! He might have lqred me, if I could Tt is the soul untutored by affliction, thejrebellious 
hare locked my anguish in my own heart, and ! heart that has never known calamity; which be- 
smiled at him and flattered him!' comes mad and desperate, and breaks Under the 

And then an icy indifference took possession of first blow. Mary Marchmont had learned the 
her. What did it matter that Edward Arundel j habit of endurance in the hard! school of sorrow 


"Edward Arundel walked out upon the terrace, 'Tell M:'\ Mareknont (liat 1 shall not return! 
and re-read the missing girl's letter." Mo . wr.s • to the Towers til! I bring her step-dauehifcr with 
calmer now, and able to face the situation with ! me,' hi-, said to the, groom; ar,d then, v.ii hoy' stop- 
all its difficulties and perplexities. He was losing ' ping to utter another word, he shook the rein on 
time, perhaps, in stopping to deliberate, but ft !; his horse 's neck, and galloped away along the 
was no use to rush off in reckless haste, undeter- 'gsaveled drive, leading to the great iron gates of 
minedin which direction he should seek for the • Marcf.mont Towers. 

lost mistress of Marehmont Towel's. One of the \ Olivia heard his message, which lied been apo- 
grooms was busy in the stables saddling Captain ' ken in a e'ear loud voice, like some knightly del-' 
Arundel's horse, and in the mean time the young jance, sounding trumpet-like at a castle gate. She 
man went out alone upon the sunny terrace to j stood in one of the windows of -the dining-room, 
deliberate upon Mary's letter. ' 'hidden by the faded velvet curtain, and watched. 

Complete resignation was expressed in evei -y i her cousin ride av,-av, brave and handsome as'anj 
line of that childish epistle. The heiress spoke ', knight-errant oit,iv e/ava.rous past, and as true 
most decisively as to her abandonment of her for- < as Baynrd himssll. 
tune and her 'home. It was clear, then, that she ■ 

meant to leave Lincolnshire; for she would know > *-«^ 

that immediate steps would be taken to discover ). 

her hiding-place, and bring her back to March- > <-w * -dt* -,-o ^ T , r 

mont. Towers. , • CJE.xfWw.,1. 

Where was she likely to go in her inexperience '; anewphotecto-r. 

of the outer world? where but to those humble \ Captain Arukde/'s innuiries at the Kember- 
relatkms of her dead mother's, of whom her • i; ng station resulted in an immediate success. A 
father had spoken m his letter .to -Edward Arun- } young lady— a young woman the railway official, 
del, and with whom the young man knew she had; called her— dressed hi black, wearing a crape 
kept up an occasional correspondence, sending | veil over her face, and carrying a smallcarpet- 
them many little gifts out ot her pocket-money. ; bag in her >ee:\ had taken a er red-class ticket 
These people were small tenant-farmers at a;. for Loudon by rite 5.50, a parliamentary trciri, 
place called Marlingford, in Berkshire. Edward. 'which stepped at almost every station' on the 
knew their name and the name of the farm. , lme, and reached ' Eiiston Sou.are at half past 

'I'll make inquiries at the Kemberling station.!; twelve. • 

to begin with,' he thought. 'There's. a through ' Edward looked at his watch. It was ten d de- 
train from the north that stops at Kemberling'af utes to two o'clock. The express did not stop at 
little before six. My poor darling may have!; Kemberling; but he' would be able to catch it at 
easily caught that, if she left the house at five. ' ';' Swampington at » quarter past three. Even thet), 

Captain Arundel went beck into the hall and !■ however, he could scarcely hope to get to Berk- 
summoned Barbara Simmons. The woman re-) shire that night. 

plied With rather a sulky air to his numerous '• 'rVJy darling girl will not discover licw foolish 
questions; but she told him that Miss Marehmont; her doubts have been until to-morrow, "he thought, 
had left her ball dress upon the bed, and had put/ 'Silly child ! has my love s6 little the aspect of 
on a gray cashmere dress trimmed with bleck rib- \> truth that she can doubt me ?' ' ' 

bon, which she had worn as half-mournirg for> He sprang on his horse again, flung r shilling 
her father; a black straw bonnet, with a crape;- to the rai!waj r porter who had held t?ie bride, 
veil, and a silk mantle trimmed with crape. She ' and rode away along the Swampingfon read. Tlie 
had taken with hera small carpet-bag,some linen — /docks in tie gray oid Norman turrets were r.'rik- 
for the linen drawer of her wardrobe was open,; ing three as the young man crossed the brkKo, 
and the things scattered confusedly about — and;, and paid his toil at the little toll-house by the 
the little morocco case in which she kept her pearl > stone archway. 

ornaments, and the diamond ring- left her by her •'■ The stress were as lonely as usual in the hot 
father. ;! July afternoon; .and the long line of sea beyond 

'Had she any money ?' Edward asked. the dreary roershes was blue in the sunshine.. 

'Yes, Sir; she was never without money. She Captain Arundel passed the two churches, and'the 
spent a good deal among the poor people she vis- low-roofed rectory, and rode away to .the out- 
ited with my mistress; but I dare say she may 'skirts of. the town, where the station glared in 
have had between ten and twenty pounds in her jail the 'brilliancy of new red bricks, and dazzling 
purse.' j stuccoed chimneys, athwart & desert of waste 

'She will go to Berkshire,' 'Edward Arundel > ground. 
thought; 'the idea of going to her humblefriends i The express train earec tearing up to the quiet 
would be the first to present itself to her mind, t platform two minutes alter .iddwrtrd had taken his 
She will go to her dead mother's sister, and give \ ticket; and in another minute the clanging bell 
her all her jewels, and ask for shelter in the quiet j pealed out its discordant, signal, and the young 
farm-house. She will act like one of the hero- man was borne, with a shriek and a whistle, away 
ines in the old-fashioned novels' she used to read upon the first stage of his search for Mary h, 'arch- 
in Oakley Street, the simple-minded damsels of mont. 

those innocent story-books, who think nothing of It was nearly seven o'clock when he reached 
resigning a castle .and a coronet, *nd going out j Euston Square.; and he only got to the Padding- 
into the world to work for their daily bread in a! ton station in time to hear that the last train for 
white satin gown, and with a string of pearls .to Marlingford had just started. There pos- 
bind their disheveled locks.' ' sibility of his reaching the iiti'e Berkshire vil- 

Captain Arundel's horse was brought round to lage that night. IV o mail tram stopped within a 
the terrace-steps, as he stood with Mary's letter I reasonable distance of the , obscure station. There 


He walked- slowly' away fijpm the station:, very / rather than that upon, which Providence had sent 
nioh disheartened by this discovery. /him a fare. 

'I'd better sleep at some hotel up this way,' he ' 'Oakley Street, Lambeth,' the young man 
bought, as he strolled listlessly in the direction 'cried. 'Double fare if you get there in ten 
f Oxford Street, 'so as to be on the spot to catch ' minutes. ' 

he first train to-morrow morning. What am I to ' The tall raw-boned horse rattled off at that pe- 
o with myself 8(11 this night, racked with unCer-.' culiar pace common to his-species, making as 
ainty about Mary r' / much noise upon the pavement as if he had been 

He remembered that "one of his brother officers ' winning a metropolitaaDerby,and at about twenty 
vas staying at the hotel in Covent Garden where ' minutes past nine drew up, smoking and panting, 
■Sdward himself stopped, when business detained /before the dimly-iighted window of the Ladies' 
iim in London.for a day or two. t / Wardrobe. The proprietress was lolling against 

: 'Shall Igo'ahdsee' Lucas?' Captain Arundel i the door-post, refreshing herself with the soft 
.hought. 'He's a good fellow, and won't bore /evening breezes from the roads of Westminster 
ne with a lot of questions, if he sees I've some : / and Waterloo, and talking to a neighbor, 
hing on my mind. There may be some letters/ 'Bless her pore innercent 'art !' the woman was 
'or me at E 's. Poor little Polly !' /saying; 'she's cried herself to sleep at last. But 

The young soldier walked through the lamp-lit '/ you neve# heard any think so pitiful as she talked 
.vestern streets thinking of the missing girl, now / to me at fust, sweet love ! and the very picture of 
issuring himself that his instinct had not deceived /my own poor Eliza Jane, as she looked. You 
iiim, and that Mary musthave gone straight to the/ might, have said it was Eliza Jane come back to 
Berkshire farmer's house, and in the next moment / life, only paler and more sickly like, and not that 
leized with a sudden terror that it might be other- / beautiful fresh color, and ringlets curled all round 
wise: the helpless girl might have gone out into Jin a crop, as Eliza Ja— -' 

a. world; of which she was as ignorant as' a child, '/ Edward Arundel burst in upon the good woman's 
determined to hide herself from all who had ever /talk, which rambled on in an unintermitting 
known her. ' / stream, unbroken by much punctuation. 

He would put advertisements in the paoers,^ 'Miss Marchmont is here,' he said; '1 know she 
calling upon his betrothed to trust him and return ; IS - Thank God, thank God! Let me see her, 
toW. Perhaps Mary Marchmont was of all ; please, directly. I am Captain Arundel, her 
people in this world the least likely to look 'into ', lather's friend, and her affianced husband. You 
a newspaper^ but at least it would be doing some-f remember me > perhaps?- Lcame here nine years 
thing to do this, and Edward' Arundel' determined ', a K° t0 breakfast, one December morning. I can 
upon going straight oft' to Printing-House Square ', recollect you perfectly, and I know that you were 
to draw up an appeal to the missing girl. >> always good to my poor friend's daughter. To 

r . , . , , , , .-, , . . , , /think that I should find her here! You shall be 

It was past ten o clock when Captain Arundel > n rewarded for kmdtless ' to her . But take 

came to this determ.nat.on and he had reached / me h ^ her c ,, 

the neighborhood ot Covent Garden and of the i ,p b nronre ress o^ the wardrobe i (, l • 
theatres. The staring play-bills adorned almost \ of ' £ he P candles that guttered in a brass* Bil 
every threshold, and fluttered agamst every -door- > candlestick upon the co( f nt and led the 
post; and the young soldier, going into a tobacco- / ^ w st £ ircase . ' P 

nists to fill his cigar-case, stared abstractedly a > ghe d the door of ^ t ghabb . . ■ 

a gaudy blue and red announcement of the -J.atj ^n the first-floor, in which the crippled 

dramatic attraction to be seen at Drury Lane It j |e b / ooded over the convex mi and # ood 

was scarcely strange that the Cap am 's. thoughts / f d the threshold while Captai , A dpJ 

wandered back to his boyhood, that shadowy time > entere / th e room. A tallow-candle was burning 
tar away behind his later days of Indian warfare /j- ,„ „„„„ *i,„ «„i,i„ „„j „ „;„i;.u +•„ „ , * b 

and elorv and thathe remembered the December ? dlml 3 u P on , the tab!e > and . a S lr)lsh . to ™ lay. Upon 
ana giory, ana matne rememoerea rne uecemoer > th narrow . h or se-hair sofa, shrouded by a woolen 
night upon which he had sat with his cousin in a ' a u a „\ J " v,u ' cu 

box at the great patent theatre, watching the con- j ,g h ; went to gl about h , f an ho . g - , 

S7 6 r S h Per r im?r ' 17 it rUgS ,l mg K U , e n 'the woman said; 'and she cried h'erself to leepj 

weight of his banner.. From theboxat Drury lambI tbink . r m ade her-some tea;' and" 

Lane to tne next morning's breakfast in Oakley / H h a few creases and a F h , ' » * 
Street was but a natural transition, of thought; fc t f best fresh but she wouldn't touch nothin' 
but with that reco lection of the humble Lam-/ or on] a few ' oonfuls of the tea , just to T^' 
beth lodging, wito ih« picture cf an le girl in a / ffie _ ^ h t is £ ^at's d fa a fro Kr 

jpmafcre .sitting demurely at her father stable / , gi and gucha good »ome. too? She showed 

and meekly wa, tag on his guest, an idea flashed / ffle a ' dia ^ ond ri as S her . Jer in W, 

across Edward Arundel's mind, and brousrht the / -,,. „„ ,„ ft „„ t „ on ^ i„„„i b" ! '™ 1 »»is 
hot blood into bk firp jwill* He left me twenty pound, pore gentleman 

notblood into hi, lace. —which he always acted like a gentleman bred 

What if Mary had gone to Oakley Street? Was and born: and 'Mr. Pollit, the lawyer, sent his 
not this even. more likely than that she should, clerk along with it and his compliments—though 
seek refuge with her kinsfolk in Berkshire? What! [> m sure I never looked for nothink.havin'alwavs 
more natural than that she should go back to the j j, ad my rent- faithful to the very minute- and Miss 
familiar habitation, dear to her by reas.m of a Mary used to bring it down to me so nrettv 
thousand associations with her dead father? ; and _L' , 

Edward Arundel was almost too impatient to I _But the whispering had grown louder by this 
wait while the smart young damsel behind-the to- jtime, and Wary Marchmont awoke from her fever- 
hjicconist's counter handed him change for the ; ish sleep, and lifted her weary head from the hard 
"half sovereign which he ; had just tendered her. ; horse-hair pillow and looked about her, half for- 
ije darted out into the street, and shouted vio- ! getful of where stie was, and of what had han- 
lently to the driver of a passing hansom, whu was,' pened within the last eighteen hours of her life 
after the manner of his kind, looking on anyside [ The soft brown eyes' wandered here and there" 


doubtful as to the reality of what they looked 
upon, until the girl saw her lover's figure, tall and 
splendid in the humble apartment, a tender half- 
reproachful smile upon his face, and his handsome 
blue eyes beaming with love and truth. She saw 
him, and a faint shriek broke from her tremulous 
lips as she tottered a'few paces forward and fell 
upon his breast. 

'You love me, then, Edward,' she cried; 'you 
do tove me !' « 

'Yes, my darling, as truly and tenderly as ever 
woman was loved upon this earth.' 

And then N the soldier sat down upon the hard 
bristly sofa, and with Mary's head still resting 
upon his breast, and his strong hand straying 
among her disordered hair, he reproached her for 
her foolishness, and comforted and snotiaed her; 
while the proprietress of the apartment stood, 
with the brass candlestick in her hand, watching 
the young lovers and weeping over their sorrows, 
as if she had been witnessing a scene- in a play. 
Their 'innocent affection was unrestrained by the 
good woman's presence; and when Mary bad 
smiled upon her lover, and assured him that she 
would never, never, never doubt him again, Cap- 
tain Arundel was fain to kiss the soft-hearted 
landlady in his enthusiasm, and to' promise her 
the handsomest silk dress that had ever been seen 
in Oakley Street, among all the fade'd splendors 
of silk and satin that ladies '-maids brought for 
her consideration. 

'Arid now, my darling, my foolish runaway 
Polly, what is to be done with you?' asked the 
young saldier. 'Will you go back to the Towers 
to-morrow morning ?' 

Mary Marchmont clasped her hands before her 
face, and began to tremble violently. 

'Oh no, no, no !' she cried; 'don't ask me to go 
back, Edward. I can never go back to that house 
again, while — ' 

She stopped suddenly; looking piteously at her 

'While my cousin Olivia Marchmont lives there, ' 
Captain Arundel said, with an angry frown. 'God 
knows it's a bitter thing for me to think that your 
troubles should come from any of my kith and kin, 
Polly. She has used you very badly, then, this 
woman ? She has been very unkind to you?' 

'No, no ! never before last night. It seems so 
long ago; but it was only last night, was it? Until 
then she was always kind to me. I didn't love 
her, you know, though I trietf to do so for papas 
sakif, and out of gratitude to her for taking such 
trouble with my education; but one can be grate- 
ful to people without loving them, and I never 
grew to love her. But last night — last night she 
said such cruel things to me — such cruel things. 
O Edward, Edward !' the girl cried suddenly, 
clasping her hands and looking imploringly at 
Captain Arundel, 'were the cruel things she said 
true? Did I do wrong when I offered to be your 

Kow could the young man answer this question 
except by clasping- his. betrothed to his heart? So 
there was another little love scene, over which 
Mrs. Pimpernel — the proprietress's name was 
Pimpernel — wept fresh tears, murmuring that the 
O'iptu'e; wa s the sweetest. young man, sweeter than 
Mr. lMacready in Claude Melnock; and that the 
«cene altogether reminded her of that 'outline' 
!>nisode where ihe proud mother went on against 
the pore young man, and Miss Faucit came out 
so beautiful. They are a play-going population 

in Oakley Street, aad compassionate and senti- 
mental like all true play-goers. 

'What shall I do with you, Miss Marchmont?' 
Edward Arundel asked, gayly, when the little lpve 
scene was concluded. 'My mother and sister are 
away, at a German watering-place, trying some 
unpronounceable Spa for the benefit of poor 
Letty's health. Reginald, is with them, and my 
father's alone at Dangerfield. Sol can't take 
you down there, as I might have done if my mo- 
ther had been at-home; I don't much care for the 
Mostyns, or you might have stopped ^n Montague 
Square. There are no friendly friars nowadays 
who will marry Romeo and Juliet at half an hotir's 
notice. You must live a fortnight somewhere, 
Polly: where shall it be?' 

'Oh, let me stay here, please,' Miss Marchmont 
pleaded; 'I. was always so happy here !' 

'Lord love her precious heart !' exclaimed Mrs. 
Pimpernel, lifting up her hands in a rapture of 
admiration. 'To think as she shouldn't have a 
bit of pride, after all the money her pore par 
come into! To think as she should wish to stay 
in her old lodgins, where every think shall be 
done to make her comfortable; and the air back 
and front is very 'ealthy though you might not be- 
lieve it, and the Blind School and Bedlam hard 
by, and Ken-nington Common only a pleasant 
Walk, and beautiful and open this warm summei 

'Yes, I should like to stop 'here, please,' Marj 
murmured. Even in the midst of her agitation, 
overwhelmed as she was by the emotions of the 
present, her thoughts went back to the past, and 
she remembered how delightful it would be to gc 
and see the accommodating buteher, and the greet 
grocer's daughter, the kind butterman who hac 
called her 'little lady,' and the disreputable graj 
parrot. How delightful it would be to see these 
humble friends,' now that she was grown up, anc 
had money wherewith to make them presents it 
token of her gratitude ! 

'Very well, then, Polly,' Captain Arundel said 
1 you'll stay here. And Mrs — ' 

' Pimpernel,' the landlady suggested. 

1 Mrs. Pimpernel will take as good care of yov 
as if you were Queen of England, and the wel 
fare of the nation depended upon your safety 
And I'll stop at my hotel in Covent Garden, ant 
I'll see Richard Paulette — he's my lawyer as wel. 
as yours, you know, Poily — and tell him some- 
thing of what has happened, and make arrange- 
ments for our immediate marriage. ' 

' Our marriage !' 

Mary Marchmont echoed her lover's last words, 
and looked up at him almost with a bewildered 
air. She had never thought of an early marriage 
with Edward Arundel as the result of her flight 
from Lincolnshire. She had a vague notion that 
she would live in Oakley Street for years, and 
that in some remote time the soldier would come 
to claim her. 

'Yes, Polly darling; Olivia Marchmont's' con- 
duct has made me decide upon a very bold'step. 
It is evident to me that my cousin hates you; for 
what reason u Heaven only knows, since you can 
have done nothing to provoke her hate. When 
your father was a poor was to me he 
would have confided jou. He chanced his mind 

terward, very naturally, and chose another 
suardian for his- orphan child. Jf my cousin had 
fulfilled this trust, Mary, J would have deferred 
to her authority, and would have held myself 
aloof until your minority was passed, rather than 



ask you to marry me without your step-mother's ; ' Let me be your wife before I see her again, 
consent. But Olivia Marchmont has forfeited I Edward,' the girl pleaded, innocently, when^ urn 
her right to be consulted in this matter. She has ! terror was uppermost in her mind. »ne coum 
tortured you and traduced me by her poisonous > not say cruel things to me it i were your _ ^ 
slander. If you believe in me, Mary, you will ) know it it wicked to be so frightened or her, De- 
consent to be my wife. My justification lies in ', cause she was always good to me until tnai , mgiu, 
the future. You will not find that I shall sponge ! but I can not tell you how I - tre ™» ** »° 
upon your fortune, my dear, or lead an idle life j thought of being alone with her at Marchmont 
because my wife is a ri*h woman.' i Towers. I dream sometime% that 1 am with ner 

Mary Marchmont looked up with shy tender- in the gloomy old house, and that we two ar» a 1 
ness at her lover. • alone there, even the servants all gone, and you 

' I would rather the fortune were yours than j far away in India, Edward— at the other end ot 
mine, Edward,' she said. ' 1 witl. do whatever j the world.' ' . 

you wish; I will be glided by you in everything.' . it was as much as her lover could do to soothe 

It was thus that John Marchmont's daughter ; and reassure the trembling girl when these 
consented to become* the wife of the man she ' thoughts took possessi%n of her. Had he been 
loved, the man whose image she had associated less sanguine and impetuous, less careless in the 
since her childhood with all that was good and buoyancy of his spirits, Captain Arundel might 
beautiful in mankind. Sh» knew none of those have seen that Mary's nerves had been terribly 
pretty stereotyped p # hr»ses by means of which ; shaken by the scene between her and Olivia, and 
well-bred young ladies can go through a graceful \ a |l the' anguish which had given rise to her flight 
fentfing-match of hesitation and equivocation, to' from Marchmont Towers. The girl trembled at 
the anguish of a doubtful and adoring suitor. ' ( every sound — the shutting of a door, the noise of 
She had no notion of that delusive negative, that ; a cao stopping in the street below, the falling of 
bewitching feminine 'no,' which is proverbially j a - book from the table to the floor, startled her 
understood to mean 'yes.' Weary courses of ; almost as much as if a gunpowder-magazine had 
Roman Emperors, South Sea Islands, Sidereal j exploded in the •eighborhood. The tears rose to 
.Heavens, Tertiary and Old Red Sandstone, had j her eyes at tjie slightest emotion. Her mind was 
very ill-prepared this poor little girl for the stern i tortured by vague fears, which she tried in vain 
realities of life. j to explain to her lover. Her sleep was broken 

' I will be guided by you, dear Edward,' she j by dismal dreams, foreboding visions of shadowy 
said; ' my father wished me to be your wife, and ; evil, 
if I did not love you, it would please me to obey ; For & ]itt]e more than a - fortnight Edward 

him -' , , , , , „ . . , , < Arundel visited his betrothed daily in the shabby 

It was eleven o clock when Captain Arundel fj rst .fj oor ; n Oakley Street, and sat by her side 
left Oakley Street. The hansom had been wait- ; while she vv-orked at some fragile scrap of em- 
ing all the time, and the driver, seeing that his \ broi( j e ry, and talked gayly to her of the happy 
fare was yoifng, handsome, dashing, and what he ; future> to the intense admiration of Mrs. Pimper- 
called ' milingtary-like,' demanded an enormous ! Qel who had no o. rea t er delight than to asssisl in 
sum when he landed the young soldier before the the'pretty little sentimental drama being enacted 
portico of the hotel in Covent Garden. ( on her first floor. ' 

Edward took a hasty breakfast the next morn- > • ' „i„,„w nnrl autumnal 

ing, and then hurried off to Lincoln 's-lnn Fields. > A Thus it was that - P",^ AnSdel and Marv 
But here a disappointment awaited him. Rich- ; August mor.ung, Edward Aiunde and Mary 
ard Paulette had started for Scotland upon a pis- j Marchmont were married mi a g^\ em ^y-l°ok 

eatorial excursion. The elder Paulette lived^ in ! >"§. chu ™ h «" lhe ^ Jl CnV the^erv ice 
.. .i e i, . j i ■ «. L- .> different curate, who snunleu inrougnine service 

the south of France, and kept his name in the ^Xa d sjeed, and with far less reverence for 

Sro^inat a e fi c^y by c.rtrw^SdeTfn r !o i f^^S ^^™?%S^ 
the belief that the solicitor who conducted their he known J bat h ^^^ nfiE.* 

Si^^:^J:&^:it^:^ \ Sr™ thousand a w^*^»^ 

v. c ,l .» .. • B new-ODener, and the registrar, who was in wait- 

W JS.% Y^rKe "woldf iupeKndZ j E "nT. vestry, and was begui.ed thence to give 
awa) among the Yorkshire wolds, superintending j & h only witnesses to this 

the foreclosure of certain mortgages upon a a£g ^ • It seemed a dreary ceremonial 

bankrupt baronet's estate It was not likely that ^auge b d beeB ' . d the< 

Captain Arundel could sit down and pour his se- l , Vu,^ ' . .„,„,,»„ „„„ h.fnr. in . 

c/ts into the bosom of a clerk, however trust- ^^^t^J^l^^^o^ 

Z" miS be° " Pe " 0naSe and with a younlperso^ in the dress-making line 

•in. ° ) , • i. j k_„„ ,i,_f v,:„ m „„ in attendance upon her as bridemaid. 

i |The young man s desire had been that his mar- J " duc " u '" r 

riagewith Mary Marchmont should take place at ; , It «'« rather a dreary wedding, no doubt. The 
least with the knowledge and approbation of her drizzling rain dripped ceaselessly in the street 
dead father's lawyer; but he was impatient to as- without, and there was. a smell of damp plaster 
sume the only title by which he might have a iif the great empty church. The me'ancholy 
right to be the orphan girl's champion and pro- street-cries sounded dismally from the outer 
tector; and he had therefore no inclination to world, while the curate was hurrying through 
wait uptil the long vacation was over, and those, portentous words which were to unite Ed- 
Messrs. Paulette and Malhewson returned from ward Arundel and Mary Marchmont until the 
their northern wanderings. Again, Mary March- final day of earthly 'separation. The girl clung 
mont suffered from a- continual dread that her ■ shivering to her lover, her husband now, as they 
step-mother would discover the secret of her ; went into the vestry to sign their name* in the 
humble retreat, and would follow her and reas- marriage-register. Throughout the service she 
sum* authority over her. '.had expected to hear a footstep in the aisle he- 


hind her, and Olivia Marchmont's cruel voice', '//you ever go back there!' cried Edward, 
crying out to forbid the marriage. /'Why, Polly, my dear, Marchmont Towers is 

'lam your wife, now, Edward, am I not?'/ your own house. My cousin Olivia is only there 
shesaid, when she had signed her name in the /upon sufferance, and her own- good seme will 
register. .! tell her she has no right to remain there when 

'Yes, my darling, forever and forever.' ishe ceases to be your frieifd and protectress. 

'And nothing cau part us now:' / She is a proud woman, and her pride will surely 

' Nothing^ut death, my dear.' ' never suffer her to remain where she must feel 

In the exuberance 8f his spirits, Edward Arun- ishe can be no longer welcome.' 
del spoke of the King of Terrors as if he had? The young wife's face turned white with terror 
been a mere nobody, whose power to change or / at her husband's words. 

mar the fortunes of mankind was so trifling as to / ' But 1 could never ask her to go, Edward,' she 
be scarcely worth mentioning.' /said. 'I wouldn't turn her out for the world. 

The vehicle in waiting to carry the mistress of/ She may stay there forever if she likes. I never 
Marchmont Towers upon the first stage of her i have cared for the place since papa's death; and 
bridal tour was nothing be^er than a hack cab. 't I couldn't go back while she is there, I'm so fright- 
The driver's garments exhaled stale tobacco-?ened of her, Edward, I'm so frightened of her.' 
smoke in the moist atmosphere, and in lieu of the \ The vague apprehension burat forth in this 
flowers which are wont to bestrew the bridal i; childish cry. Edward Arundel clasped his wife 
pathway of an heiress, Miss Marchmont trod i, to his breast, and bent over her, kissing her pale 
upon damp and mouldy straw. But she was / forehead, and murmuring soothing words, as he 
happy— happy, with a fearful apprehension that /might have done to a child. * 

her happiness could not be real — a vague terror i 'My d^ar, my tlear,' he said, 'my darling 
of Olivia's power to torture and oppress her, .; Mary, thif will never do; my own love, this is so 
which even the presence of her lover-husband- \ very foolish.' 

could not altogether drive away. She kissed £ ' I know, I know, Edward; but I can't help it, 
Mrs. Pimpernel, who stood upon'ihe edge of the 1 1 can't, indeed; I was frightened of her long ago; 
pavement, crying bitterly, with the slippery ( frightened of her even the first day I saw her, 
white lining of the new silk dress which Edward fihe day you took me to the Rectory; I was fright- 
Arundel had given her for the wedding gathered i ened of her when papa first told me he meant to 
tightly round her. , < marry her; and I am frightened of her now; even. 

' God bless you, my dear!' cried the honesty now that I'm your wife, Edward, I'm frightened 
dealer in frayed satins and tumbled gauzes; ' \\ol her stilL' 

couldn't take this more to heart if you was my Captain Arundel kissed away the tears that 
own Eliza Jane going away with the young man J trembled on his "wife's eyelids; but she had 
as she was to have .married, and as is now ajscarcely grown quite composed even when the 
widower with five children, two in arms, and the •) cab stopped at the Nine-Elms railway station, 
youngest brought up by hand. God blass your \ It was only when she was seated in the carriage* 
pretty lace, my dear; and oh, pray take care of J with her husband, and the rain cleared away as 
her, Captain Arundel, for she's a tender flower. \ they advanced farther into the heart of the pretty 
Sir, and truly needs your care. And it's but a (pastoral country, that the bride's sense of happi- 
trifle, my own sweet young missey, for the accep-jness and safety in her husband's protection re- 
tance of such as you, but it's given from a full J turned to her. But by that time she was able to 
heart, and given humbly.' 'smile in his face, and to look forward with de- 

The latter part of. Mrs. Pimpernel's speech \ light to a brief sojourn in that pretty Hampshire 
bore relation t# a hard newspaper parcel, which ;i village which Edward had chosen for th*e scene 
she dropped into Mary's lap. Mrs. Arundel £ of his honey-moon. 

opened the parcel presently, when she had kissed \ ' Only a few days of quiet happiness, Polly,' 
her humble friend for the last time and the cab \ he said; ' a few days of utter forgetfulness of all 
was driving toward Nine Elms, and found that > t the world-except you, and then I must be a man 
Mrs. Pimpernel's wedding gift was a Scotch < of business again, and write to your step-mother, 
shepherdess in china, with a great deal of gild- \ and "my father and mother, and Messrs. Paulette 
ing about her tartan garments, very red legs, a < and Mathewson^ and all the people who ought to 
hat and feathers, and a curly sheep. Edward J know of our marriage.' 
put this article ofvhtu very carefully away in his J 

.carpet-bag; for his bride would not have thepres-'! -»-»-•» 

ent treated with any show of disrespect. 

'How good of her to jive it me!' Mary said;; CHAPTER XVII. 

' it used to stand upon the back-parlqr chimney- j , 

piece when I was a little%irl; and I was so fond? PAt7L s SISTER - 

of it. Of course I am not fond of Scotch shep- \ Olivia MarcSmont shut herself once more in 
herdesses now, you know, dear; but how should; her desolate chamber, making no effort to find 
Mrs. Pimpernel know that? She thought it ;' the runaway mistress of the Towers; indifferent 
would please me to have this one.' jas to what the slanderous tongues of her neigh- 

' And you'll put it in the western drawing-'/ bors might say of her; hardened,: callous, des- 
room at the Towers, won't you Polly?' Captain ; perate. 
Arundel asked, laughing. > To her father, and to any one else who ques- 

• I won't put it any where to be made fun of, < tioned her about Mat^s absence— for the story* 
Sir,' the young bride answered, with some touch] of- the girl's flight ww soon whispered abroad, 
of wifely dignity; ' but I'll take care of it, and ! the servants at the Towers having received no 
never have it broken or destroyed; and Mrs. j injunctions to keep the "matter secret— Mrs. 
Pimpernel shall see it when she comes to the ■ Marchmont replied with such an air of cold and, 
Towers— if I ever go back there,' she added, with 1 determined reserve as kept the questiotoet-s at bay 
& suddea change of manner. [ ever afterward. 


So the Kemberling people, aud the Swamping.-) her despair this woman had grown to doub(, if 
ton people, and all the country gentry within ! either death or madness could bring her oblivion 
reach of Marchmont Towers, had a mystery and \ of her anguish. She doubted the quiet of the 
a scandal provided for them, which afforded ; grave, and half believed that the torture of jeal- 
ample scope- for repealed discussion, and consid- i ous rage and slighted love might mingle even 
erably relieved the dull monotony of their lives, j with that silent rest, haunting her in her coffin, 
But there were some questioners whom Mrs. shutting her out of heaven, and following her 
.Marchmont found it rather 'difficult to keep at a j into a darker world, there to be her torment ever- 
distanee; there were some intruders who dared j lastingly. There were times when she thought 
to force themselves upon the gloomy woman's j madness must mean forgetfulness; but there were 
solitude, and who would nbt understand that j other moments when she shuddered, horror- 
. their presence was hateful,- and their society ab-< stricken, at the thought that, in the wandering 
horrent to her. j brain of a mad woman, the* image of that grief 

. These people we're a surgeon and his wife, who j which had caused the shipwreck of her senses 
had newly settled at Kemberling; the best prac- J might still hold its place, distorted and exagger- 
tice in the village falling into the market by^ated — a gigantic unreality, ten thousand times 
reason pf the death of a steady-going, gray- \ more terrible than the truth. Remembering the 

lage. ) strange if Olivia Marchmont thought thus. 

It was only a week after Mary Marchmont 's ) She had not succumbed without ma"ny struggles 
flight when these unwelcome guests first came to ' to her sin and despair. Again and again she had. 
the Towers. . \ abandoned herself to the devils at watoh to de- 

Olivia sat alone in he,r dead husband's study — jstroy her, and again and again she had tried to 
th,e same room in which she had sat upon *the ) extricate her soul from their dreadful *power ; 
mjgyaing of John Marchmont 's funeral — a dark) but her most passionate endeavors were in vain, 
and gloomy chamber, wainscoted witli blackened {Perhaps it was th#t she did not strive aright; it 
oak, and lighted only by a massive stone-framed \ was for this reason, surely, that she failed so ut- 
Tudor window looking out into the quadrangle, Uerly to arise superior to her despair; for Qther- 
and overshadowed by that cloistered colonnade j wise that terrible belief attributed to the Calvin- whose shelter Edward and, Mary had ) ists, that some souls are fore-doomed to damna, 
walked upon the morning of the girl's flight. J tion, would be exemplified by this woman's ex- 
This wainscoted study was an apartment which ) perience. She. could not forget. She could not 
most women, having all the rooms in Marchmont ', put away the vengeful hatred that raged like an 
Towers at their disposal, would have been likely j all-devouring lire in her breast, and she cried, in 
to avoid; but the gloom of the chamber harmon-) her agony, ' There is no cure for this disease.' 
ized with that horrible gloom which had taken ■) I think her mistake was in this, that she did not 
possession of Olivia's soul, and the widow turned j go to the right physician. She practiced quackery 
from the sunny western front, as she turned from '. with her soul as some peop*le do with their bodies; 
all the su-nlight and gladness in the universe, to ' trying her own remedies rather than the simple 
come here, where the summer radiance rarely ' prescriptions of ftie Divine Healer of all woes, 
crept through the diamond-panes of the window, J Self-reliant, arid scornful of the weakness against 
where the shadow of the cloister shut out the < which her pride revolted, she trus/ed to her intel- 
glory of the blue- sky. ' ) lect and her will to lift her out of the moral slough 

She was sitting in this room— sitting near the ( into which her soul had gone down. She said: 
open window in a high-backed chair of carved ■',. ' I am not a woman to go mad for the love of a 
and polished oak, with her head resting against ', boyish face; I am not a woman to die for a fool- 
the angle of the embayed window, and her hand-; ish fancy that the veriest school-girl might b'e 
some profile thrown into sharp relief by the dark \ ashamed to confess to her companion. . I am not 
green cloth curtain, hanging in straight folds ■: a woman to dq this, and I will cure myself of my 
frojn the low ceiling to the ground, and making; folly.' 

a sombre back-ground to the widow's figure.; Mrs. Marchmont made an effort to take up her 
Mrs. Marchmont had put away all the miserable > ol3 life, with its dull round of ceaseless duty, its 
gewgaws and vanities which she had ordered \ perpetual self-denial. If she had been a Roman 
from London in a. sadden excess of folly or ca-J Catholic she would have gone to the nearest con- 
price, and "had reassumed her mourning-robes of ; ! vent, and prayed to be permitted to take such 
lustreless black. She had a booknin her hand — > vows as might soonest set a barrier between her- 
some new and popular fiction, which all Lincoln- ' self and the world; she would have spent the long, 
shire was eager to read; but although her eyes ' weary days in perpetual and secret prayer; she' 
were fixed upon the pages before her, and her ' would have worn deeper indentations upon the 
liand.mechanically turned over leaf after leaf at-; stones already hollowed by faithful knees. As it 
regular intervals of time, the fashionable romance^ was, she made a routine of penan'ce for herself 
was only a weary repetition of phrases, a dull; after her own fashion: going long distances on 
current of words, always intermingled with the ;.' foot to visit her poor, when she might have ridden 
images of Edward Arundef'and Mary Marchmont,: in her carriage; courfing exposure to rain and 
which arose out of every page to mock the hope- < foul weather; wearing herself out with unneces- 
less reader. .> sary fatigue, and returning foot-sore to her deso- 

Olivia flung the book away from her, at last, •', late home, to fall fainting into the strong arms of 
with a smothered cry of rage. •', her grim attendant Barbara. 

• Is-there no cure for this disease?' she mut-J But this serf-appointed penance could not shut 

tered. ' Is there no relief except madness or \ Edward Arundel and Mary Marchmont from the 

death?' J widow's mind. Walking through a fiery furnar* 

But in the infidelity which had arisen out of 5 their images would have haunted her still ririd 


and palpable even in the agony of dealh. The: Barbara Simmons looked at her mistress's face, 
fatigue of the Jong, weary waljts made Mrs. Anxiety and sadness dimly showed themselves in 
Marchmont wan and pale; the exposure to storm ; the stoiid countenance of the lady's-maid. A 
and rain brought on a tiresome hacking cough, ; close observer, penetrating below that aspect of 
which worried her by day and disturbed her fitful wooden solemnity which was Barbara's normal 
slnmbers by night. No good whatever seemed to ; expression, might have discovered a secret: the 
come of her endeavors; and the devils who re- quiet waiting woman loved ber mistress with a 
joiced at her weakness and her failure claimed jealous and watchful affection, that took heed of 
heras their own. They claimed her as theirown; every change in its object. 

and they were not without, terrestrial agents, Mrs. Marchmont examined the two cards, 
working patiently in their service, and ready to which bore the names of Mr. and Mrs. Weston, 
help in securing iheir bargain. ; Kemberling. On the back of the lady's card 

The great clock m the quadrangle had struck < these words were written in pencil: 
the half hour after three; the atmosphere of the ! ' Will Mrs. Marchmont be so good as to see 
August afternoon was sultry and oppressive. Mrs. - Livinia Weston, Paul March mont's younger sister, 
Marchmont had closed her>eyes after flinging aside and a connection of Mrs. M.V 
her book, and had fallen into a doze: her nights Olivia shrugged her shoulders as she threw 
were broken and wakeful, and the hot stillness of down the card, 
the day had made her drowsy. ' * j ' Paul Marchrilont! Lavinia Weston !' she mut- 

She was aroused from this half-slumber by ' tered; ' yes, I remember he said something about 
Barbara Simmons, who came into the room car- < a sister married to a surgeon at Stanfield. Let 
rying two 'cards upon a salver — the same old- these people come to me, Barbara.' 
fashioned and emblazoned salver upon which 1 The waiting-woman looked doubtfully at her 
Paul Marchmont's card had been brought to the umistress. 

widow nearly three years before. The Abigail! « You'll maybe smooth your hair and freshen 
stood half-way between the door and the window \ yourself up a bit, before you see the folks, Miss 
by which the widow sat, looking at her mistress's { Livy,' she 9aid, in a tone, of mingled suggestion 
face with a glance of sharp scrutiny. : and entreaty. ' Ye've had a deal of worry lately, 

'She's changed since he came back, and ! and it's made ye look a little fagged and haggard- 
changed again since he went away,' the woman like. I'd not like the Kemberling folks to say as 
thought; 'just as she always changed at the Rec- ■ you was ill.' 

,tory at his coming and going. Why didn't he < Mrs. Marchmont turned fiercely upon the Abi- 
take to her, 1 wonder? H^ mjght have known ; gail. 

her fancy for him, if he'd had eyes to watch her! ' Let me alone !' she cried. ' What is it to you, 
face, or ears to listen to her voice. She's hand- ; or to any one, how I look ? What good have my 
somer than the other one, and cleaverer in book- ; looks done me that I should worry myself about 
learning; but she keeps 'em ofF— she seems allers ! them ?' she added under her breath. 'Show 
to keep 'em off.' , these people in here, if they want to see me.' 

I think Olivia Marchmont -would have, torn the , 'They've been shown into the western draw- 
Very heart out of this waiting-woman's breast ] ing-room, ma'am — Richardson took 'em in there.' 
had she kndwn the thoughts that held a place in Barbara Simmons fought hard for the preser- 
it; had she known that the servant who attended ; vation of appearances. She wanted the Rector's 
upon her, and took wages from her, dared to ; daughter to receive these strange people, who had^ 
pluck out her secret, and to speculate upon her j dared to intrude upon her, in a manner befitting 
suffering. j the dignity of John Marchmont's, widow. She 

The widow awoke suddenly, and looked* up glanced furtively at the disorder of the gloomy 
with an impatient frown. She had not been j chamber. Books and papers were scattered here 
awakened by the opening of the door} but by < and there; the hearth and low fender were lit- 
that unpleasant sensation which almost always ' tered with heaps of torn letters — for Olivia March- 
reveals the presence of a stranger to a sleeper of i mont had no tenderness for the memorials of the 
nervous temperament. • \ past, and indeed took a fierce delight in sweeping 

' What is it, Barbara.'' she asked; and then, as i away the unsanctified records of her joyless, 
her eyes'rested on the cards, she added, angrily, < loveless life. The high-backed oaken chairs had 
'Haven't I told you that I would not see any ! been pushed out of their places; the green-cloth 
callers to-day ? I am worn out with my cough, ' cover had been drawn half off the massive table, 
and feel too ill to see any one. ' < and hung in trailing folds' upon the ground. A 

'Yes, Miss Livy,' the woman answered — she Shook flung here, a shawl there, a .handkerchief 
called her mistress by this name still, now and ; in another place; an open secretaire, with scat- 
then, so familiar had it grown to her during the > tered Socuments and uncovered ink-stand, littered 
childhood and youth of the Rector's daughter — j the room, and bore mute witness Of the restless- 
* I didn't forget that, Miss Livy. I told Richard- j ness of its occupant. It needed no very subtle 
son you was not to be disturbed. But the lady j psychologist to read aright those separate token* 
and' gentleman said if you saw what was wrote j of a disordered mind; of a weary spirit, whicn 
upon the back of one of the cards you'd be sure \ had sought distraction in a dozen oecupations, 
to make an exception in their favor. I think that \ and had found relief ip gone. It was some vague 
was what the lady said. She's a middle-aged \ sense of this fact that caused Barbara Simmons 's 
lady, very talkative and pleasant-mannered,' \ anxiety. She wished to keep strangers out of 
added the grim Barbara, in nowise relaxing the X this room, in which her mistiess — wan, haggard, 
stolid gravity of her own manner as she spoke. and weary-looking — revealed her secret by so 

Olivia snatched the card's from the salver. \ many signs and tokens. But before Olivia could 

' Why do people worry me so?' 'she cried, im- f make any answer to her servant s suggestion, the 
patiently. ' Am 1 not to be allowed even five door, which Barbara had left ajar, was puihed 
minutes' sleep without being broken in upon by open by a very gentle hand, and a sweet voice 
some intruder or other?' I said, in cheery, chirping accents, 


«I am sure I may come in; may I not, Mrs. reason for seeing *s, rather than for keeping us 
Marchmont? The impression my brother Paul's ; away from you?*l would ndt, of course, say a 
description gave me of you is such a Very pleasant^ word whjch could in any way be calculated^ 
one that I venture to intrude uninvited, almost ; give offense to your regular medical attendant- 
forbidden, perhaps.'' / * iyou have a' regular medical attendant, no doubt; 

The voice and manner of the speaker was so ! from Swampington, I dare say— but a doctors 
airy and self-possessed, there was such a world : wife may often be useful when a doctor is hirn- 
of cheerfulness and amiability in every tone, that, '.self out of place. There are little nervous ali- 
as Olivia Marchmont rose from her chair, she put j ments — depression of spirits, mental uneasiness— 
herliftnd to her head, dazed and confounded, as j from which women, and sensitive yomen, suffer 
if by the too boisterous caroling of some caged j acutely, and which perhaps a woman's more re- 
bird. What did they mean, these accents of glad-; fined nature alone can thoroughly comprehend. 
ness, these clear and untroubled tones, which \ You are not looking well, my dear Mrs. March- 
sounded shrill and almost discordant in the de- i m,ont. I left my husband in the drawing-room, 
spairing womanVweary ears? She stood, pale : : for 1 was so anxious that our first meeting should 
and worn, the very pictureof all gloom and misery, ; take place without witnesses. Men think women 
staring hopelessly at her visitor; too much aban- 1 sentimental when they are only impulsive. Wes- 
doned to her grief to remember, in that first mo- ! ton is a good simple-hearted creature; but he 
ment, the stern demands of pride. She stood j knows as much about a woman's mind as he does 
still; revealing, by her look, her attitude, her j of an iEollan harp. When the strings vibrate he 
silence, her abstraction, a whole history to the ■ hears the low plaintive notes, but he has no idea 
watchful eyes that were looking at her. j whence the melody comes. Jt is thus with us, 

Mrs. Weston lingered on the threshold of the i Mrs. Marchmont. These medical men watch us 
chamber in a petty, half-fluttering manner; which I in the agonies of hysteria; they hear our sighs, 
was charmingly expressive of a struggle between \ they see our tears, and in their awkwardness and 
a modest poor-relation^Jike diffidence and an \ ignorance they prescribe commonplace remedies 
earnest desire to rush into Olivia's arms. The /.out of the pharmacopoeia. No, dear Mrs. March; 
surgeon's wife was a delicate-looking little wo- fmont, you do not look well. I fear it is the mind, 
man, with features that seemed a miniature and the mind, which has been overstrained. Is it not 
feminine reproduction of her brother Paul's, and so?' 

with very light hair-^hair so light and pale that, ' Mrs. Weston put he* head on one side as she 
had it turned as white as the artist's in a single j asked this question, and smiled at Olivia with an 
night, very few people would have been likely to : air of gentle insinuation. If the doctor's wife 
take heed of the change. Lavinia Weston was wished to plumb the depths of the widow's gloomy 
eminently what is generally cajled a ladylike wo- ; soul she had an advantage here; for Mrs. March- 
man. She always conducted herself in that special ; mont was thrown off her guard by the question, 
and particular manner which was exactly fitted to : which had been perhaps asked hap-hazard, or, it 
the occasion. She adjusted her behavior by the : . may be, with ajdeeply-considered design. Olivia ' 
nicest shades of color and hair-breadth scale of: turned fiercely upon the polite questioner, 
measurement. She had, as it were, made for; ' I have been suffering from nothing but a cold 
herself ^ homeophatic system of good manners, ■] which 1 caught the other day,' she'' said; ' I am 
and could mete out politeness and courtesy in the i not subject to any fine-ladylike hysteria, I can as- 
veriest globules, never administering either too J sure you, Mrs. Weston.' 

much or too little. To her husband she was a : The doctor's wife pursed up her lips into a 
treasure beyond all price; and if the Lincoln- \ sympathetic smile, not at all abashed by this re- 
shire surgeon — who was a fat, solemn-faced man, I buff. She had seated herself in one of the high- 
with a character as level and monotonous as the j backed chairs, with her muslin skirt spread out 
flats and fens of his native county— was hen- about her. She looked a living exemplification 
pecked, the feminine autocrat held vthe reins of j of all that is neat and prim and commonplace, in 
government so lightly that her obedient subject \ contrast with the pale, stern-faced#voman, stand- 
was scarcely aw.are how very irresponsible his : ing rigid and defiant in her long black robes. 
wife's authority had becotie. ' How very chy-arming !' exclaimed Mrs. Wes- 

As Olivia Marchmont stood confronting the ton. 'You are really not nervous. Dee-arme; 

•ight ribbons and primly-ad-i impertinent, and that I presume upon our very 
justed gloves} looked something like an adven- !§light*elationship. It is a relationship, is it not,, 
turous canary who had a mind to intrude upon although such a very slight one?' 
the den of a hungry lioness. The dffference, [ 'I have never thought of the subject,' Mrs. 
physical and moral, between the timid bird and j Marchmont replied, coldly. 'I suppose, how- 
tlje savage forest-queen could be scarcely wider ! ever, that my marriage with your brother's 
than that between the two women. < cousin*—' 

But Olivia did n*t stand forever embarrassed ; ' And my cousin — ' 
and silent in her visitor's, presence. Her pride ' Made a kind of connection between us. But 
came to her rescue. She turned sternly upon the Mr. Marchtriont gave me to understand that von 

: lived at Stanfield, Mrs. Weston.' J 

polite intruder. 

« Walk in, if you please, Mrs. Weston,' she 
said, 'and sit down. I was denied to you just 
now because I have been ill, and have ordered 
my servants to deny me to every one.' 

'But, my dear Mrs*. Marchmont,' murmured 
Lavinia Weston in soft, almost dove-like accents, 

' Until last week, positively until la*t week ' 
answered the surgeon 's wife. ' 1 see you take verv 
little interest in village gossip, Mrs. Marchmont 
or you would have heard of the change at Kem' 

' What change ?' 

« if you have been ill, is not your illness another > ' My husband 's purchase of poor old Mr 1)b 



field's practice. The dear oilman died a month bered in the neighborhood lor a long time. We 
ago— you heard eff his death.W course— and Mr. • heard of this sad girl's flight.' 
Weston negotiated the purchase with Mrs. Dawn- ' Mrs. Marchmont looked up with a dark frown, 
field in less, than a fortnight. We came here ; but made no answer. 

early last week, and already we are making' 'Was .she — it really is Such a very painful 

friends in the neighborhood. How strange that question, that I almost shrink from — but was Miss 

you should not have heard of our coming !' , f/ Marchmont at all— eccentric — a little mentally 

' I do not see much society,' Olivia answered, : deficient? Pray pardon me, if I have given you- 

indifferently, ' and I hear nothing of the Kember- pain by such a question; but — ' 

ling people.' Olivia started, and looked sharply at her-vfiiitor. 

' Inaeed !' cried Mrs. Weston; ' and we hear so '.; ' Mentally deficient? No !' she said. But as she 

much of Marchmont Towers at Kemberling.' spoke her eyes dilated, her pale cheeks grew 

She looked full in the widow's face as she ';, paler, her upper lip quivered with a faint convul- 

spoke, her stereotyped smile subsiding into a look ; sive movement. It seemed as if some idea pre- 

of greedy curiosity; a look whose intense eager- ; sented itself to her with a sudden force that al- 

ness could not be concealed. ! most took_away her breath. 

That look, and tbe tone in which her last sen- }' ' -Yot mentally deficient?' repeated Lavinia 
fence had been spoken, said as plainly as the! Weston; ' dee-ar me! It's a great comfort to 
plainest words could have done, ' I have, heard of J hear that. Of course Paul saw very little of his 
Mary Marchmont 's flight.' \ cousin, and he was not, therefore, in a position to 

Olivia understood this; but in the. passionate 'judge— though his opinions, however rapidly ar- 
depth of her own madness she had no power to rived at, are generally so very accurate— but he 
fathom the meanings or the motives of other peo-jp ve me to understand that he. thought Miss 
pie. She revolted against this Mrs. Weston, and - Marchmont appeared a little— just a little— weak 
disliked her because the woman intruded upon ; m her intellect. 1 am very glad to find he was 
her in her desolation; but she never once thought mistaken.' 

of Lavinia Weston's interest*in Mary's move-;' Olivia made no reply* to this speech. She had 
ments; she never once remembered that the frail ; seated herself in her chair by the window; she 
life of that orphan girl only stood between this Rooked straight before her info the flagged quad- 
woman's brother and the rich heritage of March- rangle, with her hands lying idle' in her lap. It 
mont Towers. * , seemed as if she were actually unconscious of 

Blind and forgetful of -every thing in the hide-,' her visitor's presence, or as if, in her scornful 
ous egotism of her despair, what was Olivia < pdifierence, she did not even care to aftect any 
Marchmont but a fitting tool, a plastic and easily-; : int T erest . ln that visitor s conversation, 
moulded instrument in the hands of unscrupulous : : ^""^eston returned again to the attack, 
people, whose hard intellects had never been/, rray, Mrs. Marchmont, do not think me in- 
beaten into confused shapelessness in the fiery ;trusive or impertinent, she said, pleadingly, ' if I 
furnace of passion > « .; ask you to iavor me with the true particulars Of 

»t w V ' i a i a r at a* v. U ' this sad event. lam sure you will be good enough 
Mrs Weston had heard of Mary Marchrnont's ; to remember that my brother Paul, my sister, and 
flight; but she had heard half a dozen different mlf are M Marchrnont's nearest relatives 
reports of that event, as widely diversified in : on her father > s side) and that we „ 'therefore, 
their details as if half a dozen heiresses had fled^ ome righ t to feel interested in her.' 
from Marchmont Towers. Every gossip i«, the B thjg lite h Lavinia w t 

place had a separate story as to the circumstances p]ain]y remin ded the widow of the insignificance 
which had led to the.girls running away from her, of her own position at Marchmont Towers. In 
home. The accounts vied with each other m i; her ordinary frame of mind Olivia would Have 
graphic iorce and minute elaboration; the con-; 'respited the lad y-likesli ght; butto-da y she neither 
versations that had taken place between Mary / heard nor heeded it; she was, brooding with a stu- 
and her step-mother, between Ed ward Arundel ,; pid unre asonab)e persistency over the words 
and Mrs. Marchmont, between the Rector of ,■ , meYltal deficie . « weak in t e n ect .> She only 
Swampington and nobody in particular, would I; ; roused herself b -at eff - t to answer M ' 

have filled a volume, as related by the gossips of; Weston's question when that lady had repeated it 
Kemberling; but as every body assigned a differ- m ver y pi a ; n words r 

ent cause for the terrible misunderstanding at the , , : can tell no thing about Miss Marchrnont's 
Towers, and a different direction for Mary s fli ht , she 8aid; coW) < e t tbat gbe chose 
flight— and as the railway oflicial at the station, run away from hei . home , j found reason ■ ob . 
who could have thrown some light on the subject, j ectt0 her CO nduct upon the night of the ball- 
was a stern and moody man, who had little syul- , and the next mornitJg she left th % hou a - 
pathy with h IS kind, and held his tongue, persist- ing no Veason-to me, at any rate— for her ab- 
ently— it was not easy to get very near the truth. surd and i mproper behaviour.' 
Under these circumstances, then Mrs Weston < Sne ass i gne d no reason to yon, my dear Mrs. 
determined upon seeking information at the foun- Ma rchmont; but she assigned a reason to some- 
Iain-head, and approaching the cruel step-mother, ; DO dy, I infer, from what you-gay >' 
who, according to some of the reports, had ; < yes; she wrote a letter tq my cousin, Captain 
starved and beaten her dead husband s child. Arundel.' ' 

' Yes, dear Mrs. Marchmont,' said Lavinia ' Telling him the reason of her departure?' 
"Weston, seeing that it was necessary to come I 'I don't know — I forget. The letter told noth- 
direct to the point if she wished to wring the : ing clearly; it was wild and incoherent.' 
truth from Olivia; 'yes, we hear of everything ', Mrs. Weston sighed; a long-drawn, desponding 
at Kemberling; and 1 need scarcely tell you that;! sigh. 

we heard of the sad trouble which you have had ', 'Wild and incoherent!' she murmured, in a 
to endure since your ball — the ball that is spoken 'pensive tone. 'How grieved Paul will be to hear 
of as the most cby-arraing entertainment remem- ) of this •' He took such an interest in his cousin— 



a delicate and fragile-looking young creature, he 
toid me. Yes, he took a very great interest in 
h*, Mrs. Marchmont, though you may perhaps 
scarcely believe me when 1 say so. tie kept 
himself purposely aloof from this place-, his sen- 
sitive nature led him to abstain from even reveal- 
ing his interest in Miss Marchmont. His position, 
you must remember, with regard to this poor dear 
<rirl, is a very delicate — 1 may say a very painfuT — 

Olivia remembered nothing. The value of the 
Marchmont estates; the sordid worth of those 
wide-stretching farms, spreading far away into 
Yorkshire; the pitiful, closely-calculated revenue, 
which made Mary a wealthy heiress, were so far 
from the dark thoughts of this woman's desperate 
heart, that she no more suspected Mrs. Weston of 
any mercenary design in coming to the Towers 
than of burglarious intentions with regard to -the 
•ilver spoons in the plate-room. She only thought 
that the surgeon 's 1 wife was a tiresome woman, 
against whose pertinacious civility her angry- 
spirit chafed and rebelled, until she was almost 
driven to order her from the room. 

In this cruel weariness of spirit Mrs. March- 
mont gave a short impatient sigh, which afforded 
a sufficient hint to such a* accomplished tactician 
as her visitor. 

'I know I have tired you, my dear Mrs. 
Marchmont,'- the doctor's, wife said, rising and 
arranging her muslin scarf as she spoke, in token 
of her immediate departure; ' I am so sorry to 
find you a sufferer from that nasty hacking cough; 
but of course you have the best advice, Mr. Pool- 
ton from Swampington, I think you said?' — Olivia 
had said nothing of the kind— '>arid I trust the 
warm weather will prevent the cough taking an} 
hold of your chest. If I might venture to suggest 
flannels — sp many young women quite ridicule 
the idea of.flannels— but, as the wife of a humble 
provincial practitioner, 1 have learned their value. 
Good-by, dear Mrs. Marchmont. I may come 
again, may I not, now that the ice is broken, and 
we are so well acquainted with each other ? Good- 
by.' • 

Olivia could not refuse to take at least one of 
the two plump and tightly gloved hands which 
were .held out to her with 'an air of frank cordi- 
ality; but the widow's grasp was loose and nerve- 
less, and inasmuch as two consentient parties art 
required to the shaking of hands, as well as tc 
the getting up of a quarrel, the salutation was 
not a very hearty one. 

The surgeon's pony must have been, weary ol 
standing before the flight of shallow steps leading 
to the western portico, when Mrs. Weston tool 
her seat by her husband's side in the gig, which 
had been newly painted and varnished since th« 
worthy couple's Hegira from Stan field. , 
. The surgeon was not an ambitious man, nor a 
designing man; he was simply stupid and lazy; 
lazy, although, in spite of himself, he led an 
active and hard-working life; but there are many 
square men whose sides are cruelly tortured by 
the pressure of the round holes into which they 
are ill-advisedly thrust, and if our destinies were 
meted out to us in strict accordance with our 
temperaments, Mr. Weston should have been. a 
lotus-eater. As it Was, ha was content to drudge 
on, mildly complying with every desire of his 
wife; doing what she told him, because it was 
less trouble to do the hardest work at her bidding 
than to oppose her. It would have been surely 
less painful to Macbeth to have finished that ugly 

business of the murder than to have endured my 
lady's black contemptuous scowl, and the bitter 
scorn and contumely concentrated in those four 
words, • Give me the daggers !' 

Mr. Weston asked one or two commonplace 
questions about his wife's interview with John 
Marchmont's widow; but slowly apprehending 
that Lavinia did not care to discuss the matter, 
he relapsed into meek silence, and devoted all his 
intellectual powers Ho the task of keeping the 
pony out of the deeper ruts in the rugged road be- 
tween Marchmont Towers and Kemberling High 

,' What is the secret of that woman's life?' 
thought Lav'infc. Weston during that homeward 
drive; < has she ill-treated the girl, or is she plot- 
ting in some way or other to get hold of the March- 
mont fortune? Pshaw ! that's impossible. And 
yet she niay be making a purse, somehow or other, 
out of the estate. Any how, there is bad blood 
between the two women.' 



The village to whi,ch Edward Arundel took his 
bride was within a few miles of Winchester. 
The young soldier had become fsftniliar with the 
place in his early boyhood, when he had gone to 
spend a part of one bright mid-summer holiday at 
the house of a school-fejlow; and had ever since 
cherished, a friendly remembrance of 'the winding 
trout-streams, the rich verdure of the valleys, and 
the sheltering hills that shut in the pleasant little 
cluster of thatched cottages, the pretty white- 
walleu villas, and the gray old church. 

But to Mai-y, whose experiences of town and 
country were limited to the dingy purlieus of Oak- 
ley Street'and the fenny flats of Lincolnshire, this 
Hampshire village seemed a rustic paradise, which 
neither trouble nor sorrow could ever approach. 
She had trembled at the thought of Olivia's com- 
ing in Oakley Street; but here she seemed to lose 
all termor of her stern step-mother — here, shel- 
tered and protected by her young husband's lo%e, 
she fancied that she might live her life out happy 
and secure* • 

She told Edward this one sunny morning, as 
they sat "by the young man s favorite trout-stream. 
Captain Arundel's fisBing-tafckle lay idle on the 
turf at his side, for he had been beguiled into 
t'urgetlulness of a ponderous trout he trad been 
matching and finessing with for' upward of an 
hour, and had flung himself at full length upon 
the moss'y'margin of the water, with his un- 
covered head lying in Mary's lap. 

Th,e childish bride would have been content to 
sit forever thus in that rural solitude, with her 
fingers twisted in her husband's! chestnut curls, 
and her soft eyes keeping timid watch upon his 
handsome face— so candid and unclouded in its 
careless repose ( The undulating mesdow-land 
lay half-hidden hi a golden haze, only broken 
here and there by the glitter of the brighter sun- 
light that lit up the rippling water* of the wan- 
dering streams that intersected the low pastures 
The massive towers ,,f the: cathedra], the gray 
walls of St. Cross, loomed dimly in the distance- 
the bubbling plash of a mill-stream sounded like 
some monotonous lullaby in the drowsy summer 
atmosphere. Mary looted from the face she 


loved to the fair landscape about her, and a ten- ! ' Well poor John had a sort of a prejudice 
der solemnity crept into her mind, a reverent ; against the man, 1 believe; but it was only a preju- 
love and admiration for this beautiful earth, ' dice, for he freely confessed that he could assign 
which was almost akin to awe. '; no reason for it. But whatever Mr. Paul March- 

' How pretty this place is, Edward;' she said. '; mont may be, you must live at the Towers, Mary, 
' I had no idea there were such places in all the j and be Lady Bountiful-in-chief in your neighbor- 
wide world. Do you know, I think 1 would hood, and look after your property, and have long 
rather be a cottage-girl here than an heiress in ' interviews with Mr. Gormby, and become alto- 
Lincolnshire. Edward, if I ask you a favor, ! gether a woman of business; so that when I go 
will you grant it?' i back to India — ' 

She spoke very earnestly, looking down at Mary interrupted him with a little cry: 
her husband's upturned face; but Captain Aran- ' Go back to India!' she exclaimed. ' What 
del only laughed at her question, without even -do you mean, Edward?' 

caring to lift the drowsy eyelids that drooped ' I mean, my darling that my business in life 
over his blue eyes. is to fight for my Queen and country and not to 

' Well, my pet, if you want any thing* short ; sponge upon my wife's fortune,.. You don't sup- 
of the moon, I suppose your devoted husband is i pose I'm going to lay down my sword at seven-and- 
scarcely likely to refuse it. Our honey-moon is > twenty years of age, and retire upon my pension? 
not a fortnight old yet, Polly dear; you wouldn't ■ No, Polly; you remember what Lord Nelson said 
have me tarn tyrant quite as soon as this. Speak on the deck of the Trafatgar. That saying can 
out Mrs. Arundel, and assert your dignity as a never be so hackneyed as to lose its force. Imuat 
British matron. What is the favor 1 am to do my duty, Polly; I must do my duty; even. if 
grant?' . i duty and love pull different ways and I have to 

'I want you to live here always, EdwardJ leave my darling in the service of my country.' 
darling,' pleaded the girlish voice. ' Not for a > Mary clasped her hands in despair, and looked 
fortnight or a month, but for ever and ever. 1 ! piteously at her lover-husband, with the tears 
haveflever been happy at Marchmont Towers. \ streaming down her pale^cheeks. 
Papa died there, you know, and I can not for- ( ' Oh, Edward,' she cried, ' how cruel you are; 
get that. Perhaps that ought to have made the J how very, very cruel you are to me ! What is the 
place sacred to me; and so it has; but it is sa- j use of my fortune if you won't share it with me — 
cred like papa's, tomb in Kemberling^ Church, j if you won't take it all; for it is yours, toy dearest; 
and it seems like profanation to be hap'py in it, \ it is all yours. I remember the words in theMar- 
or to forget my dead father even for a moment. \ riage Service, ' with all my goods 1 thee endow.' 
Don't let us go back there, Edward. Let my < I have given you Marchmont Towers, Edward; 
step-mother live there all her life. It would J nobody in the world ca» take it away from you. 
seem selfish and cruel to turn, her out of the ) You never, never, never could be so cruel as to 
house she has so long been mistress of. Mr. leave me. I know how brave and good you are, 
Gormby will go on collecting the rents, you j and I am proud to think of your noble courage, 
know, and can send us as much money as we and all the brave deeds you did in India. But 
want; and we can take that pretty house we : you have fought for your country, Edward; you 
saw to let on the other side of Milldale — the house ■' have done your duty. Nobody can expect more 
with the rookery, and the dove-cots, and the slo- of you; nobody shall take you from me. Oh, my 
ping lawn leading down to the water. You know darling, my husband, you promised to shelter and 
you don't like Lincolnshire, Edward, any more defend me while our liv,es last! You won't leave 
than I do, atid there's scarcely any trout-fishing '; me — you won't leave me, will your' 
near the Towers. Edward Arundel kissed the tears away from his 

Captain Arundel opened his eyes, and lifted wife's pale face, and drew her head upon his 
himself out of his reclining position before he bosom. 
ansVered his wife. ; ' My love,' he said tenderly, ' you can not tell 

'My own precious Polly,' he said, smiling how much pain' it gives me to hear you talk like 
fondly at the gentle childish face turned in such . this. Whatcanldo? To give up my profession 
earnestness toward his own; ' my runaway little would be to make myself next kin to a pauper, 
wife, rich' people have theit duties to perform as What would the world say of me, Mary? Think 
well as poor people; and i am afraid it would ^ of that. Thft runaway marriage would be a 
never do for you to hide in this out-of-the-way :■ dreadful dishonor to me if it were followed by a 
Hampshire village, and play absentee from stately : life of lazy dependence on my wife's fortune. 
Marchmont and all its dependencies. I love that Nobody'can dare to slander the soldier who spends 
pretty, infantine, unworldly spirit of jours, my the brightest years of his life $1 the service of his 
darling; and I sometimes wish we were two grown- country. You would not surely have me be less 
up babes in the wood, and could wander about than true to myself, Mary darling? For my 
gathering wild flowers, and eating blackberries honor's sake I must leave you.' 
and hazel-nuts, until the shades of evening closed '• 'Oh, no, no, no!' cried the girl, in a low 
in, and the friendly robins came to bury us. ; wailing voice. Unselfish and devoted as she had 
Don't fancy I'm tired of our honey-moon j Polly, been in every other crisis of her young life, she 
or that 1 care for Marchmont Towers any more could not be reasonable or self-denying here; she 
than you do: but I fear the non-residence plan was seized with despair at the thought bf parting 
would never ansvver. Thff workl would call my with her husband. No, not even for/his honor's 
little wife eccentric, if she ran away from her Bake could she let him go. Better that they should 
grandeur: and Paul Marchmont, the artist — of both die now, in this early noontide of their hap- 
whom your poor father had rather a bad opinion,; piness. 

hv-the-way— would be taking out a statute off ' Edward, EJward,' she sobbed, clinging- con- 
lunacy against you . ; vulsively about the young man 's neck, 'don 'fleave 

•Paul Marchmont,' repeated Mary. ' Did ! me; do.i't leave m« !' 
papa dislike Mr. Paul Marchmont?' '.Will you go with me to India, then, Mary?' 



She lifted h,er head suddenly, and looked her 
husband in the face, with the gladneis in her eyes 
ihining through her tears, like an April sun 
through a watery sky. 

'I would go to the end of the world with you, 
my own darling,'she said; ' the burning sand? 
wd the dretdful jungles would have no terrors 
for me if I were with you, Edward.' 

Captain Arundel smiled at her earnestness. 

'I won't take you into the jungle, my love,' he 
inswered, playfully; ' or, if 1 do, yourpalkishali 
b* well guarded, and all ravenous beasts kept at a 
respectful distance from my little w'ife. A greal 
many ladies go to India "with their husbands, 
Polly, and come back very little the worse for 
the climate or the voyage; and except your 
money, there is no reason you should not go with 

' Oh, never mind my money; let any body have 

'Polly,' cried the soldier very seriously, 'we 
must consult Richard Pauiette as to the future.. 
I don't think I did right in marrying'you during 
his absence; and I have delayed writing to him 
too long, Polly. Those letters must be written 
this afternoon.' 

' The letter to Mr. Paulette and to your father ?' 

' Yes, and the letter to my cousin Olivia.' 

Mary's face grew sorrowful again, as Captain 
Arundel said this. 

' Must you tell ray step-mother of our mar- 
riage ?' she said. 

4 Most assuredly, my dear. Why should we 
keep her in ignorance of it? Your father's wili 
gave her the privilege of advising you, hut not 
the power to interfere with your choice, what- 
ever that choice might be. You were your own 
mistpess, Mary, when you married me. What 
reason have you to fear ray cousin Olivia?' 

'No reason, perhaps,' the girl answered, sadly; ; 
' but I do fear her. 1 know I am very foolish,; 
Edward, and you have reason to despise me — : 
you, who are so brave. But I could never- tell 1 
you how I tremble at the thought of being once 
more in my step-mother s power. She said cruel 
things to me, Edward. Every word she spoke" 
seemed to stab me to the heart; but it isn't that 
only. There's something more than that; some- 
thing that I can't describe, that I can't under- 
stand; something which tells me that she hates 

'Hates you, darling?' 

' Yes, Edward, yes; she hates me. It wasn't 
always so, you know. She used to be only cold 
and reserved; but lately her manner has changed 
I thought that she was ill, perhaps, and that my 
presence worried her. People often wish to be 
alone, I know, when they are ill. O Edward, 1 
have seen her shrink from me, and shudder if her 
dress brushed against mine, as if 1 had been some 
horrible creature. What hare I done, Edward, 
that she should hate me?' 

Captain Arundel knitted his brows, and set 
himself to work out this womanly problem; but 
he could make nothing of it. Yes, what Mary 
had said was perfectly true : Olivia hated her. 
The young man had seen that upon the murning 
of the girl's flight from Marchmont Towers He 
had seed vengeful fury and vindictive passion 
raging in the dark face of John Marohmont's 
widow. But what reason could the woman have 
for her hatred of this innocent girl? Again and 
again Olivia's cousin asked himself this question; 
»ad he was so far away from the truth at last 

that he could only answer It by imagining the 
lowest motive for the widow's bad feeling. ' She 
envies my poor little girl her fortune and posi- 
tion,' he thought. 

' But you won't leave me alone with my step- 
mother, will you, Edward?' Mary said, recurring 
to her old prayer. ' I am not afraid of her, nor 
of any body or any thing in the world, while you 
are with me— how should 1 be?— but I think, if I 
were to be alone with her again, I should die. 
She would speak to me again as she spoke upon 
the night of the ball, and her bitter taunts would 
kill me. I could not bear to be in her power 
again, Edward. ' 

'And you shall not, my darling,' answered the 
voung man, enfolding the slender, trembling 
"igure in hi* strong arms. 'My own childish 
pet, you shall never be exposed to any woman's 
insolence or tyranny. You shall be sheltered and 
protected, and hedged in on every side by your 
husband's love. And when I go to India you 
shall sail with me, my pearl. Mary, look up 
and smile at me, and let's have no more talk of 
cruel step-mothers. How strange it seems to 
nie, Polly dear, that you should have been so 
-vomaniy when you were a child, and yet are so 
chiidlike now you are a woman !' 

The mistress of Marchmont Towers looked 
doubtfully at her husband, as if she feared her 
childishness might be displeasing to him. 

'You don't love me any the less because of 
that, do you, Edward ?' she asked, timidly. 

' Because of what, my treasure?' 

' Because I am so — childish?' 

' Polly.' cried the young man, ' do you think 
Jupiter 'liked Hebe any the less, because she was 
as fresh and innocent as the nectar she served out 
to him? If he had, my dear, he'd have sent for 
Clotho, or Atropos, or some one or other of the 
elder;v maiden ladies of Hades, to wait upon 
him as cup-bearer. I wouldn't have you other- 
wise than you are, Polly, by 90 much as one 

The girl looked up at her husband in a rapture 
of innocent affection. 

' { am too happy, Edward,' she said, in a low, 
awe-stricken whisper. ' I am too happy. So 
much happiness can never last.' 

Alas ! the orphan girl's experience of this life 
had early taught her the lesson which some peo- 
ple learn so late. She had. learned to distrust 
the equal blue of a summer sky, the glorious 
splendor of the blazing sunlight. She was ac- 
customed to sorrow; but these brief glimpses of 
perfect happiness filled her with a dim sense of 
terror. She felt like some earthly wanderer who 
had strayed across the threshold of Paradise. In 
the mjtfst of her delight and admiration she 
tr?;nlil*d for the moment in which the ruthless 
angels, bearing flaming swords, should drive her 
from the celestial gates. 

' It can't last, Edward,' she murmured. 

'Can't last, Polly!' cried the voung man; 
• why, mv dove is transformed all at once into a 
We have outlived our troubles, Polly, 
• h?ro and heroine in one of your novels; 
at is to prevent our living happy ever after- 
Si:* them? If you remember, my 
or trials ever fall to the lot of people 
nfler marriage. The persecutions, the separa- 
tions, Hie estrangements, are all antenuptial. 
When otfce your true novelist gets his hero and 
heraine up to the altar rails in real earnest— he 
gets thera into the church sometime*, and then 

like tr, 
ar.d wl 
son oiv 


forbids the bans, or brings a former wife, or a i 
ri ii'ful husband, pale and denouncing, from be-! 
hind a pillar, and drives the wretched pair out! 
»;; a in, to persecute them through three hundred I 
pHirt's more before he lets them get back again — ! 
but «hen once the important words are spoken ! 
and i lie knot tied, the story's done, and the happy! 
couple get forty or fifty years' wedded bliss as a 
s»i iiff atrainst the miseries they have endured in 
tho troubled course of a twelve-month's court- 
ship. That's the sort of thing, isn't it, Polly ?' 

The clock of St. Cross, sounding faintly 
athwart the meadows, struck three as the young 
.nan finished speaking. 

'Three o'clock, Polly!' he cried; 'we must 
go home, my pet. I mean to be business-like 

Upon each day irr that happy honey-moon holi- 
day Captain Arundel had made some such decla- 
ration with regard to his intention of being 
business-like; that is to say, setting himself de- 
liberately to the task of writing those letters 
which should announce and explain his marriage 
to the people who had a right to hear of it. But 
the soldier had a dislike to all letter-writing, and 
a special horror of any epistolary communica- 
tion which could come under the denomination 
of a business-letter ; so the easy summer days 
slipped by — the delicious drowsy noontides, the 
sofi: and dreamy twilight, the tender moonlit 
nights — and the Captain put off the task for which 
he had no fancy, from after breakfast until after 
dinner, and from after dinner until after break-! 
fast; always beguiled away fro rh his open trav-! 
eliog-desk by a word from Mary, who called him 
to the window to look at a pretty child on the 
village green before the inn, or at the black- 
smith's dog, or the tinker's donkey, or a tired 
Italian organ-boy who had strayed into that out- 
oi'-the-way nook, or at the smart butcher from 
Winchester, who rattled over in a pony-eart 
twice a week to take orders from the gentry 
round about, and to insult and defy the local pur- 
veyor, whose stock generally seemed to cpnsist 
of one leg of mutton and a dish of pig's fry. 

The young couple walked slowly through the 
meadows, crossing rustic wooden bridges that 
spanned the Winding stream, loitering to look 
dmvn into the clear water at the fish which Cap- 
tain Arundel pointed out, but which Mary could 
never see, that young lady always fixing her eyes 
upon some long trailing weed afloat in the trans-: 
parent water, while the silvery trout indicated 
hv her husband glided quietly away to the sedgy 
bottom of the stream. They lingered by- the 
water-mill, beneath whose shadow some children 
were fishing ; they seized upon every pretext for 
lengthening that sunny homeward walk, and only 
retched the inn as the village clocks were strik- 
ing four, at which hour Captain Arundel had 
o.-dirod dinner. 

But after the simple little repast,. mild and art- 
lesi in its nature as the fair young spirit of the 
bride herself; after the landlord, sympathetic yet 
respectful, had in his own person attended upon 
his two guests; after the pretty rustic chamber 
had been cleared of all evidence of the meal that 
had been eaten — Edward Arundel began to se- 
riously consider the business in hand. 

' The letters must be written, Polly,' he said, 
seating himself at a table near the open window, 
r vailing branches of jasmine and honey-suckle 
made a frame-work round the diamond-paned 
easement ; the scented blossoms blew into the 

room with every breath of the warm August 
breeze, and hung trembling in the folds of the 
chintz curtains. Mr. Arundel's gaze wandered 
dreamily away through this open window to the 
primitive picture without — the scattered cottages 
upon the other side of the green, the cattle stand- 
ing in the pond, the cackling geese hurrying 
homeward across the purple ridge of common, 
the village gossips loitering beneath the faded 
sign that hung before the low white tavern at the 
angle of the road. He looked at all these things 
as he flung his leathern desk upon the table, and 
made a great parade of unlocking and opening it. 

' The letters must be written,' he repeated, with 
a smothered sigh. ' Did you ever notice a pecu- 
liar property in stationery, Polly?' 

Mrs. Edward Arundel only opened her brown 
eyes to their widest extent, and stared at her 

' No ; I see you haven't,' said the young man. 
'How should yOu, you fortunate Polly? you've 
never had to write any business-letters yet, though 
you are an heiress. The peculiarity of all sta- 
tionery, my dear, is, that it is possessed of an in- 
tuitive knowledge of the object for which it is to 
be used. If one has to write an unpleasant letter, 
Polly, it might go a little smoother, you know ; 
one might round one's paragraphs, and spell the 
difficult words — the "believes" and "receives," 
the "tills" and "untils," and all that sort of 
thing — better with a pleasant pen, an easy-going, 
jolly, soft-nibbed quill, that would seem to say, 
"Cheer up, old fellow, I'll carry you through it ; 
j we'll get to ' your very obedient servant ' before 
you know where you are," and so on. But, bless 
your heart, Polly, let a poor, unbusiness-like fel- 
low try. to write a business-letter, and every 
thing goes against him. The pen knows what 
he's at, and jibs and tumbles and shies about the 
paper like a broken-down screw ; the ink turns 
thick and lumpy, the paper gets as greasy as a 
London pavement after a fall of snow, till a poor 
fellow gives up, and knocks under to the force ol 
circumstances. You see if my pen doesn't splut- 
ter, Polly, the moment I address Richard Pau- 

Captain Arundel was very careful in the ad- 
justmentof his sheet of paper, and began his let- 
ter with an air of resolution : 

'White Hart Ijin, Miildaib, near 'WjaCHMTM 
AuguBt 14. 

« Mr Dear Sir ' — 

He wrote as much as this with great prompti- 
tude, and then, with his elbow on the table, fell 
to staring at his pretty young wife and drumming 
his fingers on his cttin. Mary was sitting oppo- 
site her husband at the open window, woriahg, 
or making a pretense of being occupied with 
some impossible fragment of Berlin wool-work, 
while she watched her husband. 

' How pretty you look in that white frock, 
Polly!' said the soldier; 'you call those things 
frocks, don't you ? And that blue sash, too— yow 
ought always to wear white, Mary, like your 
namesakes abroad who are vouit an blanc by 
their faithful mothers, and. who are a blessing to 
the laundresses for the first seven or fourteen 
years of their lives. What shall I say to Pau- 
lette? He's sHch a jolly fellow, there owghn t to 
be much difficulty about the matter. "My dear 
Sir," seems absurdly stiff ; "My dear Paulette — 
that'* better — "I write this to inform you thtt 



your client, Miss Mary March—" What's that, ( to look for her. I'm very glad 1 didn't write to 
Polly ?' f Olivia. We were so happy this morning ! Who 

It was the postman, a youth upon a pony, with : could think that sorrow would come between us 
the afternoon letters from London. Captain : so sfon ?' 

Arundel flung down his pen and went to the win- j Captain Arundel looked at his watch. It was 
dow. He had some interest in this young man's j a quarter to six o'clock, and he knew that an 
arrival, as he had left orders that such letters as j express left Southampton for the west at eight, 
were addressed to him at the hotel in Covent Gar- 1 There would be time for him to catch that tr»in 
den should be forwarded to him at Milldale. with the help of a sturdy pony belonging to the 

'I dare say there's a letter from Germany, j landlord of the White Hart, which would raitle 

Polly,' he said, eagerly. 'My mother and Letitia 
are capital correspondents ; I'll wager any thing 
there's a letter, and I can answer it in the one 
I'm going to write this evening, and that'll be 
killing two birds with one stone. 
to the postman, Polly. ' 

Captain Arundel had good reason to go after 
his letters, for there seemed little chance of those 
missives being brought to him. The youthful 
postman was standing in the porch drinking ale 
out of a ponderous earthen-ware mug, and talk- 
ing foihe landlord, when Edward went down. 

'}{$# fetters for me, Dick?' the Captain asked. 
He knew the Christian name of almost every 
visitor or hanger-on at the little inn, though he 
had not staid there an entire fortnight, and was 
as popular and admired as if he had been some 
free-spoken young squire to whom all the land 
round about belonged. 

'Ees, Sir,' the young man answered, shuffling ! Marchmont. 

him over to. the station in an hour and a half. 
There would be time for him to catch the tram ; 
but, oh, how little time to comfort his darling -, 
how little time to reconcile his young wife to the 
I'll run down i temporary separation ! 

' He hurried back to the porch, briefly explain fd 
to the landlord what had happened, ordered the 
pony and gig to be got ready immediately, find 
then went very, very slowly up stairs, to -the 
room in which his young wife sat by the open 
window waiting for his return. 

Mary looked up at his face as he entered the 
room, and that one glance told her of some new 
sorrow. . 

'Edward,' she cried, starting up from her 
chair with a look of terror, 'my step-mother has 

Even in his trouble the young man smiled £>; 
his foolish wife's all-absorbing fear ofOliria 

'No, my darling,' he said ; 'I wish to Heaven 
our worst trouble were the chance of your father's 
widow breaking- in upon us. Something has hap- 
pened, Mary; something very sorrowful,, very 
serious for me. My father is ill, Polly dear, dan- 
gerously ill, and I must go to him.' 

Mary Arundel drew a long breath. Her face 
had grown very white; and the hands that were 
linked tightly together upon her husband's shoul- 
der trembled a little. 

'I will try to bear it,' she said ; 'I will try to 

off his cap; 'there be two letters for ye 

He handed the twq packets to Captain Arun- 
del, who looked doubtfully at the address of the 
uppermost, which, like the other, had been re- 
directed by the people at the London hotel. The 
original address of this letter was in a hand- 
writing that was strange to him ; but it bore the 
post-mark of the village from which the Danger- 
freld letters were sent. 

''The back of the inn looked into an orchard, 
and through an open door opposite to the porch 
Edward Arundel saw the low branches of the \ bear it 
trees, and the ripening fruit red and golden in \ 'God bless you, my darling!' the soldier on- 
the afternoon sunlight. He went out into this < swered, fervently, clasping his young wife to his 
orchard to read his letters, his mind a little dis- \ breast. 'I know you will. It will be a veiy 
turbed by the strange handwriting upon the Dan- short parting, Mary dearest. I will come back 
gerfield epistle. j to you directly I have seen my father. If he is 

The letter was from his father's housekeeper, j worse, there will be little need for me to stop at 
imploring him most earnestly to go down to the > Dangerfield ; if he is better, I can take you back 
Park without delay. Squire Arundel had been > there with me. My own darling love, it is very 
seized with an attack of paralysis, and was ,de- '< bitter for us to be parted thus ; but I know 
clared to be in imminent danger. Mrs. and Miss \ that you will bear it like a heroine. Won't you, 
Arundel and Mr. Reginald were away in Ger- > Polly ?' 

many. The faithful old servant implored the j 'I will try to bear it, dear.' 
younger son to lose no time in hurrying home, iff She said very little more than this, but clung 
he wished to see his father alive. \ about her husband, not with any desperate force 

The soldier stood leaning against the gnarled 
gray trunk of an old apple-tree, staring at this 
letter with a white awe-stricken face. 

What was he to do ? He must go to his father, 
of course. He must go without a moment's de- 
lay. He must catch the first train that would 

not with any clamorous and tumultuous grief, but 
with a half-despondent resignation ; as a drown- 
ing man, whose strength is well-nigh exhausted, 
may cling, in his hopelessness, to a spar which he 
knows he must presently abandon. 

Mary Arundel followed her husband hither and 

carry him westward from Southampton. There thither while he made his brief and hurried pre 
could be no question as to his duty; He must go ; parations for the sudden journey ; but although 

he must leave his young wife. 

His heart sank with a sharp thrill of pain, and 
with perhaps some faint shuddering sense of an 
unknown terror, as he thought of this. 

'It was lucky I didn't write the letters," he re- 
flected ; 'no one will guess the secret of my dar- 
ling's retreat. She can stay here till I come 
back to her. God knows I shall hurry back the 
moment my duty sets me free. These people 

she was powerless to assist* him — for her trem- 
bling hands let fall every thing she tried to lipid, 
and there was a mist before her eyes which dis- 
torted and blotted the outline of each object she 
looked at — she hindered him by no noisy lamen- 
tations, she distressed him by no tears. She suf- 
fered, as it was her habit to suffer, quietly and 
uncomplainingly. J 

The sun was sinking when she went with Ed- 

will *&• «are of U«r. No on» will know where i ward down stairs to the porch, before which the" 


landlord's pony and gig were in waiting, in cus- {his father out of danger— restored to health, pex- 
tody of a smart lad who was to drive Mr. A-run- 5 haps— and to return to her before the stars glim- 
del to Southampton. There was no time for any ' mered through the darkness of another summer 1 ! 
protracted farewell. It was better so, perhaps, ^nkht. She prayed for him, hoping and believing 
Edward thought. He would be back so soon that { every thing ; though at the hour in which she 
, the grief he felt in this parting— and it may be { knelt, with the faint starlight shimmering upon 
that his suffering was scarcely less than Mary's — {her upturned face and clasped hands, Edward 
seemed wasted anguish, to which it would have j Arundel was lying, maimed and senseless,, in the 
been sheer cowardice to give way. But for all {wretched waiting-room of a little railway-station 
this the soldier very nearly broke, down when he J in Dorsetshire, watched over by an obscure couff- 
saw his childish wife's piteous face, white in the {try surgeon, while, the frightened officials scud- 
evening sunlight, turned to him in mute aj»pea'l, {ded here and there in search of some vehicle in 
as if the quivering lips would fain have entreated Uvhich.the young man might be conveyed to the 
him to abandon all and to remain. He lifted the ^nearest town. 

fragile figure in his arms — alas ! it had never { There had been one of those 'accidents which 
seemed so fragile as now — and covered the pale {seem terribly common on every line of railway, 
face with passionate kisses and fast-dropping {however well managed. A signal-man had mis- 
tears. { taken one train for another ; a flag had be«n 
*God bless and defend you, Mary! God {dropped too soon ; and the down express had run 
keep — ' {into a heavy luggage-train blundering up from 
He was ashamed of the huskiness of his voice, {Exeter with'farni produce for the London mw- 
and putting his wife suddenly away from him, he {kets. Two men had been killed, and a great 
sprang into the gig, snatched the reins from the { many .passengers hurt ; some very seriously. Ed- 
boy's, hand, and drove away at the pony's best ', ward Arundel's case was perhaps one of the most 
speed. The old-fashioned vehicle disappeared in £ jerious among these. 
a cloud of dust ; and Mary, looking after her { 
husband with eyes that were as yet tearless, saw { 

nothing but glaring light and confusion, and a { ■*"*■♦ ~" 

pastoral landscape that reeled and heaved like a { 
stormy sea. < 

It seemed to her, as she went slowly back to { CHAPTER XIX. 

her room, and sat down amidst the disorder of{ sounding the depth,. 

open portmanteaus and overturned hat-boxes, { 

which the young man had thrown here and there < ( Lavinia Weston spent the evening after her 
in his hurried selection of the few things neces-f visit to Marchmont Towers at her writing-desk, 
sary for him to take on his hasty journey — it { which, like every thing else appertaining to her, 
seemed as if the greatest calamity of her life had { was a model of neatness and propriety; perfect 
now befallen her. As hopelessly as she had ( in its way, although it was no marvellous speci- 
thought of her father's death, she now thought ofj men of walnut-wood and burnished gold, no ele- 
Edward Arundel's' departure. She could not see j gant structure of papier-mache and mother-of- 
beyond the acute anguish of this separation. She; pearl, but simply a school-girl's rosewood vel- 
could not realize to herself that there was no{ vet-lined desk, bought for fifteen shillings or a 
cause for all this terrible sorrow ; that the part- ; guinea. 

ing was only a temporary one ; and that her bus- ■{ Mrs. Weston had administered the evening 
band would return to her in a few days at the ', refreshment of weak tea, stale bread, and strong 
furthest. Now that she was alone, that the ne-<; butter to her meek husband, and had dismissed 
cessity for heroism was past, she abandoned her- { him to the surgery, a sunken and rather cellar- 
self utterly to the despair that had held possession { like apartment opening out of the prim second- 
of her soul from the moment in which Captain .; best parlor, and approached frcin the village 
Arundel had told her of his father's illness. {street by a side-door. The surgeon was very 

The sun went down behind the purple hills { well content to employ himself wi(,h the prepa- 
that sheltered the western side of the little vil- 1 ration of such draughts and boluses as were re- 
lage. The tree-tops in the orchard below the {quired by the ailing inhabitants of Kemberling, 
open window of Mrs. Arundel's bedroom grew 1, while his wife sat at her desk in the room above 
dim in the gray twilight. Little by little the j, him. He left his gallipots and pestle and mor- 
sound of voices in the rooms below died away {tar once or twice in the course of the evenisg 
into stillness. The fresh rosy-cheeked country / to clamber ponderously up the three or four stairs 
girl who had waited upon the young husband and j leading to the sitting-room, and stare through 
wife came into the sitting-room with a pair of j the keyhole of the door at Mrs. Weston's thought; 
wax candles in old-fashioned silver candlesticks, \ ful face, and busy hand gliding softly over ho 
and lingered in the room for a little time, expect- ; smooth note-paper. He did this in no prying or 
ing to receive some order from the lonely j suspicious spirit, but out of sheer admiration for 
watcher. But Mary had locked the door of her { his wife. 

bedchamber, and sat with her head upon the sill j 'What a mind she has!' he murmured, rap- 
of the open window, looking wearily out into the > turously, as he went back to his work; ' what a 
dim orchard. It was only when the stars glim- ? mind!' 

mered in the tranquil sky that the girl's blank i The letter which Lavinia Weston wrote that 
despair, gave way before a sudden burst of tears, S evsning was a very long one. She was one of 
and she flung herself down beside the white-cur- s those women who write long letters upon every 
tained bed to pray for her young husband. She convenient occasion. Tonight she covered two 
prayed for him in an ecstatic fervor of love and sheets of note-paper with her small neat hand- 
faith, carried away by the new hopefulness that writing. Those two sheets contained a detailed 
arose out pf her ardent supplications, and pictur- account of the interview that had taken plase 
ing him going triumphant on his course to find that day between the mrgeon « wife and Olivia* 

JQfllf MAKCHMOjrT'S LE©A<n* >mm ^ 

and the letter was addressed to the artist, Paul , ing, and were eaiily put out by * few quips and 
Marchmont. > quaint retorts from the mad Danish P rince- 'J|fc 

Perhaps'it was in" consequence of the receipt '> Paul Marchmont would hare played upon Hanft^f 
of this letter that Paul Marchmont arrived at 'more deftly than ever mortal physician played 
his sister's house at .Kemberling two days after > upon pipe or recorder, and would have fathomed 
Mrs. Weston's visit to Marchmont Towers. He ': the remotest depths of that sorrowful and erratie 
told the surgeon that he came to Lincolnshire for 'soul. Olivia writhed under the torture of that 
afew days'- change of air, after a long spell of .' polite inquisition, for she knew that her secrets 
very hard work; and George Weston, who looked , ; were being extorted from her ;•. that her pitiful 
upon his brother-in-law as an intellectual demi- 'folly— that folly which she would have denied 
god, was very well content to accept any expla- ( even to herself, if possible— was being laid bare 
nation of Mr. Marchmont 's visit. \ in all its weak foolishness. She knew this ; but 

'Kemberling isn't a very lively place for you, ! she was compelled to smile in the face of her 
Mr. Paul,' he said, apologetically — he always ! bland inquisitor, to respond to his commonplace 
called his wife's brother Mr. Paul — 'but I dare ; expressions of concern about the protracted ab- 
say Lavinia will contrive to make you comfort- i sence of the missing girl, and meekly to receive 
able. She persuaded me to come here when old • his suggestions respecting the course it was her 
Dawnfield died; but I can't say she acted with > duty to take. He had the air of responding to 
her usual tact, for the business ain't as good as <ker suggestions, rather than of himself dictating 
my Stanfield practice; but I don?t tell Lavinia j any particular line of conduct. He affected to 
so.' ! believe that he was only agreeing with some un- 

Paul Marchmont smiled. ' derstood ideas of hers, while he urged his own 

'The business will pick up by-and-by, I dare i views upon her. 
say,' he said. 'You'll have the Marchmont' 'Then we are quite of one mind in this, my 
Towers' family U> attend to in good time, I sup- [■ dear Mrs. Marchmont,' he said, at last ; 'this un- 
pose.' j fortunate girl mu»* not be suflered to remain 

' That's what Lavinia said,' answered the sur- i away from her legitimate home any longer than 
geon. ' Mrs. John Marchmont can't refuse to i we can help. It is our duty to find and bring her 
employ a relation,' she says; ' and as first cousin ! back. I need scarcely say that you, being bound 
to Mary Marchmont's father, I ought' — meaning ! to her by every tie of affection, and having, be- 
herself, you know — 'to have some influence in { yond this, the strongest claim upon her gratitude 
that quarter.' But then, you see, the very week j for your devoted fulfilment of the trust confided 
we come here the gal goes and runs away; which ] in you — one hears of these things, Mrs. March- 
rather, as one may say, puts a spoke in our wheel, i mont, in a country village like Kemberling — I 
you know. ' 'need scarcely say that you are the most fitting 

Mr. George Weston rubbed his chin reflectively \ person to win the poor child back to a sense of 
as he concluded thus. He was a man given to ( her duty — if she can. be won to such a sense.' 
spending his leisure hours — when he had any Paul Marchmont added, after a sudden pause and 
leisure, which was riot very often — in tavern j a thoughtful sigh, 'I sometimes fear — ' ' 

parlors, where the affairs of the nation were j He stopped abruptly, waiting until Olivia 
settled and unsettled every evening over sixpenny j should question him. 
glasses of Hollands and water; and he regretted ; 'You sometimes fear — ?' 

his removal from Stanfield, which had been as./ 'That — that the errur into which Miss March- 
the uprooting of all his dearest associations. He j mont has fallen is ihe result of a mental rather 
was a solemn man, who neyer hazarded an opin-i than of a moral deficiency.' 
ion lightly — perhaps because he never bad an 'What do you mean ';' 

opinion to hazard— and his stolidity won him a 'I mean thir-, toy dear Mrs. Marchmont,' an- 
good deal of respect from strangers; but in the ' swered the artist, gravely ; 'one of the mostpow- 
hands of hra wife he wa3 meeker than the doves ! erful evidences ,of the soundness of a man's brain 
thatcooed in fhe pigeon-house behind his dwelling, i is his capability of assigning a reaionable motive 
ami more plastic than the knob of white wax \ for every action of his life. No matter how un- 
upon whicJti industrious Mrs. Weston was wont i reasonable the action in itself may seem, if t^e 
to rub her thread when engaged in the mysteries i motive for that action can be demonstrated. But 
of that ela'bflrate and terrible science which wo- > the moment a man acts without motive, we begin 
men paradoxically call plain needle-work. ! to take alarm and to watch him. He is eccentric; 

Paul MSrehmoct presented himself at the ;' his conduct is no longer amenable to ordinary 
Towers upon t'ife day after his arrival at Kem- ! rule ; and we begin to trace his eccentricities to 
berling. His interview with the widow was a J some weakness or deficiency in his judgment or 
very long one. He had studied every line of his intellect. Now, I ask you what motive Mary 
sister's letter; he had weighed every word that j Marchmont can have had fo» running away from 
had fallen from Olivia's lips and had been re- j this house?' 

corded by Lavinia Weston; and taking the know]- j Olivia quailed under the piercing scrutiny of 
edge thus obtained as his starting-point, he took the artist's cold gray eyes, but she did not at- 
his dissecting-knife and went to work at an inte'- J tempt to reply to his question, 
lectual autopsy. He anatomized the wretched 'The answer is very gimffle,' he continued 

woman's soul. He made her tell her secret, and j after that long scrutiny ; %ie^£irl could have had 
bare her tortured breast before him; now wring- j no cause for flight ; while,' on the other hand 
ing some hasty word from her impatience, now j every reasonable motive that can be supposed to' 
entrapping her into some admission — if only as ; actuate a woman's conduct was arrayed against 
much as a defiant took, a sudden lowering of the ■ her, She had a happy home, a kind step-mother 
dark brows, an involuntary compression of the She was within a few years of becoming uneWs- 
lips. He made her reveal herself to him. Poor puted mistress of a very large estate. And vet" 
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were sorry blun- immediately after having assisted at a festive en* 
derer* in that art whieh i» vulgarly called pump* ( tertainraent, to all appearance as gay and kapny 


as the gayest a-nd happiest there.this girl runs away I some faint suspicion was beginning to dawn upo» 
in the dead of the night, abandoning the mansion ; her. 

which is her ow,n property, and assigning no rea-'l If she could have thought Mary Marchmont 
son whatever for what sire does. Can you won- ' mad — if she could have thought Edward Arundel 
der? then, if I feed confirmed in an opinion that I f base — she would have been glad ; for then thera 
formed upon the day on which I heard the read- j would have been some excuse for her own wick- 
ing of my .cousin's will ?' edness. Bat she could not think so. She slipped 

'What dpinion ?' i little by little down into the black gulf, dragged 

'That Mary Marchmont is as feeble in mind as j now by her own mad passion, now lured yet fur- 
she is fragile in body.' ther downward by Paul Marchmont. 

He launched this sentence boldly, and waited i Between this man and eleven thousand a year 
for Olivia's reply. He had discovered the J the life of a fragile girl was the solitary qbstacle. 
widow's secret. He had fathomed the cause of) For- three years it had been so, and for three 
her jealous hatred of Mary Marchmont ; but years Paul Marchmont had waited— patiently, as 
even hi did not yet understand the nature of the it was his habit to wait — the hour and the oppor- 
conflict in the desperate woman's breast. She tunity for action. The hour and opportunity had 
could not be wicked all at once. Against every \ come, and this woman, Olivia Marchmont, only 
fresh sin she made a fresh struggle, and she stood in his way. She must become either his 
would not accept the lie which the artist tried tot enemy or his tool, to be baffled or to be made 
force upon her. j useful. He had now sounded the depths of her 

'I do not think that there is any deficiency in i nature, and he determined to make her his tool. 
my step-daughter's intellect,' she said, resolutely. I 'It shall be my business to discover this poor 
She was beginning to understand that Paul { child's hiding-place,' he said; 'when that is 
Marchmont wanted to ally himself with her \ found, I will communicate with you, and I know 
against the orphan heiress, but as yet she did not j you will not refuse to fulfill the trust confided to 
understand why he should do so. She was slow j you by your late husband. You will bring your 
to comprehend feelings that were utterly foreign i step-daughter back to this house, and hencefor- 
to her own nature. There was so little of mer- 1 ward protect her from the dangerous influence of 
cenary baseness in this strange woman's soul, i Edward Arundel.' 

that had the flame of a candle alone stood be- Olivia looked at the speaker with an expres- 
tweftn her and' the possession of Marchmont Tow- \ sion which seemed like terror. It was as if she 
ers, I deubt if she would have cared to waste a \ said, 

breath upon its extinction. She had lived away > 'Are you the devil, that you hold out this tempt- 
from the world, and out of the world ; and it was ;> ation to me, and twist my own passions to serve 
difficult for her to comprehend the mean and pal- i your purpose ?' 

try wickednesses which arise out of the worship And then she paltered with her conscience, 
of Baal. > 'Do you consider that it is my duty to do this V 

Paul Marchmont recoiled a little before the ', she asked, 
straight answer which the widow had given him; i 'My dear Mrs. Marchmont, most decidedly,.' 

'You think Miss Marchmont strong-minded, 'I will do it, then. I — I — wish to do my duty.' 
then, perhaps ?' he said . i 'And you can perform no greater act of charity 

'No, not strong-minded.' ; than by bringing this unhappy girl back to a 

'My dear Mrs. Marchmont, you deal in para- ; sense of her duty. Remember that her reputa- 
doxes,' exclaimed the artist. 'You say that your i tion, her future happiness, may fall a sacrifice to 
step -daughter is neither weak-minded nor strong- ; this foolish conduct, which, I regret to say, is 
minded? , very generally known in the neighborhood. For- 

'Weak enough, perhaps, to be easily influenced ; give me, if I express my opinion too freely ; but 
by other people; weak enough to believe any J i cannot help thinking that if Mr. Arundel's in- 
thing my cousin Edward Arundel might choose to tentions had been strictly honorable, he would 
tell her ; but not what is generally called deft- r have written to you before this, to tell you that 
cient in intellect.' :■ his search for the missing girl had failed ; or, in 

'You think her perfectly able to take care of '. the event of his finding her, he would have taken 
herself?' J.the earliest opportunity of bringing her back to 

'Yes ; I think so. ' \ her own home. My poor cousin's somewhat un- 

'And yet this running away looks almost as ; protected position, her wealth, and her inexpe- 
if — but 1 have no wish to force any unpleasant ', rience of the world, place her at the mercy of a 
belief upon you, my dear madam. I think— as fortune-hunter ; and Mr. Arundel has himself to 
you yourself appear to suggest— that the best J thank if his conduct gives rise to the belief that 
thing we can do is to get this poor girl home J he wishes to compromise this girl in the eyes of 
again as quickly as possible. It will never do for ; the scandalous, and thus make sure of your con- 
the mistress of Marchmont Towers to be wander- ; sent to a marriage which would give him com- 
ing about the world with Mr. Edward Arundel. <mand of my cousin's fortune.' 
Pray pardon me, Mrs. Marchmont, if I*speak! Olivia Marchmont's bosom heaved with the 
rather disrespectfully of your cousin ; but I really < stormy beating of her heart. Was she to sit 
ean not think that the gentleman has acted very; calmly by and hold her peace while this man 
honorably in this business.' ; slandered the brave young soldier, the bold, reek- 

Olivia was silent. She remembered the pas- j.less, generous-hearted lad, who had shone upon 
iionate indignation of the young soldier, the an- her out of the darkness of her life, as the very 
gry defiance hurled at her, as Edward Arundel incarnation of all that is noble and admirable in 
galloped away from the gaunt western facade, mankind ? *Was she to sit quietly by and hear a 
She remembered these things, and involuntarily j stranger lie away her kinsman's honor, and truth, 
contrasted them with the smooth blandness of j and manhood > 

Paul Marchmont'* talk, and the deadly purpose Yes, she must do so. This man had offered 
lurking btimth it— of whieh deadly purpo«e I her ft priee for her truth and her «mJ. U* »m 



'I will go up 
work about this business,' the artist said, as he 
rose to take leave of Mrs. Marchmont ; 'J do not 
b«lieve that I shall hare much difficulty in find- 
ing the young lady's hiding-place. My first task 
shall be to look for Mr. Arundel. You can per- 
haps give me the address of some place in London 
where your cousin is in the habit of staying?' 


wsady to help her to the revenge she longed for, I This was a young man with a. long lawny beard 
He was ready to give her his aid in separating J and a white face— a very handsome face, though 
the innocent young lovers, whose pure affection | wan and attenuated, as if with some terrible 
had poisoned her life, whose happiness was worse ! sickness, and somewhat disfigured by certain 
than the worst death to her. She kept silent, strappings of plaster, which were bound about a 
therefore, and waited for Paul to speak apain. patch of his skull a little above the left temple. 
" '" to Town to-morrow, and set to This young man had the side of one carriage to 

himself, and a sort of bed had be* made up for 
him with extra cushions, upon which lie lay at 
full length, when he was still, which was never 
for very long together. He was enveloped al- 
most to the chin in voluminous railway-rugs, but, 
in spite of these coverings, shuddered every now 
:and then as if with cold. He had a pocket pis- 
tol among his traveling paraphernalia, which he 
'Thank you ; that will very much simplify mat- 1 applied occasionally to his dry lips. Sometimes 
ters. I shall write you immediate word of any j drops of perspiration broke suddenly out upon 
discovery I make, and will then leave all the rest I his forehead, and were brushed away by a tremu- 
to you. My influence over Mary Marchmont as nous hand, that was scarcely- strong enough to 
an entire stranger could be nothing. Yours, on i hold a cambric handkerchief. In short, it wai 
the contrary, must be unbounded. It will be for ) sufficiently obvious to every one that this young 
you to act upon my letter.' } man with the tawny beard had only lately risen 

| from a sick-bed, and had risen therefrom con- 
Olivia Marchmont waited* for two days and j siderably before, the time at which any prudent 
nights for the promised letter. Upon the third I medical practitioner would have given him li- 
morning it came. The artist's epistle was very i cense to do so. 

brief: I It was evident thaj he was vei"f, very ill, but 

| that he was, if anything, more ill at ease in mind 

'My dear Mrs. Marchmont, — I have made the | than in body, and that some terrible gnawing 

necessary discovery. Miss Marchmont is to be t anxiety, some restless care, some horrible uncer- 

found at the White Hart Inn, Milldale, near Win- 1 tainty or perpetual foreboding of trouble, would 

Chester. May I venture to urge your proceeding/ not allow him to be at peace. It was as much at 

there in search of her without delay ? 
'Yours very faithfully, 

'Paul Marchmont. 

'Ghabmsts SiaaBf, Fitzbot Sqctabe, Aug. 1».' 

5 the three fellow-passengers who. sat opposite to 
• him could do to bear with his impatience, his 
. restlessness, his short half-stifled moans, his long 
> weary sighs ; the horror of his fidgety feet shuf- 
' fled incessantly upon the, cushions ; the suddenly 
convulsive jerks with which he would lift him- 
self upon his elbow to stare fiercely into the dis- 
mal fog outside the carriage window ; the groans 
that were wrung from him as he flung himself 
ioto new and painful positions ; the frightful as- 
pect of physical agony which came over his face 
as he looked at his watch — and he drew out and 
The rain dripped ceaselessly upon the dreary J consulted that ill used chronometer, upon an 
earth under a gray November sky — a dull and 5 average, once in a quarter of an hour ; his impa- 
lowering sky, that seemed to brood over this / tient crumpling of the crisp leaves of a. new 
lower world with some menace_ of coming down ^ 'Bradshaw,' which he turifed over ever and 

anon, as if, by perpetual reference to that myste- 

■" ) *»• 



to blot out and destroy it. The express train 
rushing headlong across the wet flats of Lincoln- 
shire glared like a meteor in the gray fog ; the 
dismal shriek of the engine was like the cry of 
a bird of prey. The few passengrrs who had 
chosen that dreary winter's day for their travels 

rious time-table, he might hasten the advent of 
the hour at which he was to reach his destina- 
tion. He was, altogether, a most aggravating 
and exasperating traveling companion ; and it 
was only out of Christian forbearance with the 

looked despondently out at the monotonous pros- i weakness of his physical state that hts irritated 
pect, seeking in vain to descry some spot of hope ) fellow-passengers restrained from uniting them- 
ln the joyless prospect ; or made futile attempts > selves against him, and ousting him bodily out of 
to read their newspapers by the dim light of the > the window of the carriage ; as a clown some- 
lamp in the roof of the carriage. Sulky passen- 1 times flings a venerable but tiresome pantaloon 
ters shuddered savagely as they wrapped them- < through a square trap or pitfall, lurking, un- 

telves in huge woolen rugs or ponderous cover 
ings made from the skins of wild beasts. Mel- 
ancholy passengers drew grotesque and hideous 
traveling-caps over their brows, and, coiling 

themselves in the corner of their seats, essayed to -eler ; buf their courtesies had rot been responded 

sleep away the weary hours. Every thing upon to with any evidence of gratitude or heartiness 

this earth seemod dismal and damp, cold and The young man had answered them in an absent 

desolate, incongruous and uncomfortable. fashion, scarcely deigning to look at them as he 

Sut there was one first-class passenger in that spoke, speaking altogeter with the air of some 

sleep-walker, who roams hither and thither ab- 
sorbed u> a dreadful dream, making a world for 
himself, and peopling it with horrible images un- 
known to those about him. 
Had he been ill? Ym> ywy 111. He fcad had 

W there was one first-class passenger in that 
Lincolnshire express who made himself especially 
obnoxious to his fellows by the display of aD 
amount of restlessness and superabundant energy 
quite out of keeping with the lazy despondency of 
isx-AA atrwit him. 

dreamed of, in the facade of an honest trades- 
man's dwelling. 

The three passengers had, in divers manners, 
expressed their sympathy with the invalid trav- 


a railway aecident, and then, brain-fever. He S answer to hii attendant's congratulatory *ddreai. 
had been ill for a long time. j 'Get me a fly directly. I must-go to the Towen 

Somebody asked him how long? j at once.' 

He shuffled about upon the eushions, andj 'Not to-night, Sir, surely ■' the servant remon- 
groaned aloud at this question, to the alarm of strated, in a tone of alarm. 'Your Mar and the 
the man who had asked it. doctors said you mutt rest at Swampington for a 

'How loner' hi cried, in a fierce agony of, night.' 
mental or bPiily uneasiness ; 'how long? Two) 'I'll rest nowhere till I've been to Marchmont 
months — three month* — ever since the 14th of; Towers,' answered the young soldier, passion- 
August. 1 ' ately. 'If 1 must walk thete — if I'm to drop 

Then another passenger, looking at the young! down dead on the road — I'll go. If the corn- 
man's very evident sufferings from a commercial) fields between this and the Towers were a blaz- 
point of view, asked him whether he had had any i ing prairie or a raging sea, IJd go. Get me a 
compensation. { fly, roan ; and don't talk to me*of my mother or 

'Compensation!' eried the Invalid. ' What ', the doctors. I'm going to look for mw wife. Get 
compensation!' J me a fly.' 

'Compensation from the Railway Company. I; This demand for a eommonpiace hackney vehi- 
hop.e you've a strong case against them, for you've; ele sounded rather like an anti-climai^after the 
evidently been a terrible sufferer.' } young man's talk of blazing prairies and raging 

It was dreadful to see the way in which the J seas; but passionate reality has no ridiculous 
sick man writhed under this question. J side, and Edward Arundel's most foolish words 

'Compensation !' he eried. 'What compensa-J were sublime by reason of their earnestness. 
tion can they gi%e me for an accident that shut} 'Get me a fly, Morrison,' he said, grinding his 
me in a living grave for three months, that sftpa- j heel upon the platform in the intensity of his im- 
rated me from — You don't kaow what you're} patience. 'Or, stay, we should gain more in the 
diking about, Sir,' he added, suddenly ; '1 can't; end if we were to go to the George — it's not ten 

think of this business patiently; I can't be rea- ^'minutes' walk from here ; one of the porters will 

anable. If they 'd hacked me to pieces, I sh 
have cared. I've been under a ret-hot Indian suu ; let you have so'mevehicle, with a pair of horses 

sonable. If they 'd hacked me to pieces, I shouldn't; take you — the people there know me, and they'll 

rhen we fellows eouldn't see the sky above us} and a clever driver. Tell them it's for an er- 
for the smoke of the"eantions and the flashing of' rand of life and death, and that Captain Arundel 
the sabres aboutour heads, and I'm not afraid of ', will pay them three times their usual price, or 
a little-cutting and smashing more or less ; but /six times, if they wish. Tell them any thing, so 
when I think what others - may have sufl'ered : long as you get what we wan:.' 
through — I'm almost mad, and — :j The valet, an old servant of Edward Arundel's 

He couldn't say any more, for the intensity oflfather, was carried away by the young man's, 
his passion had shaken him as a leaf is shaken by J nad impetuosity. The vitality of this broken- 
a whirlwind ; and he fell back upon the oushions,', down invalid, whose physical weakness con- 
trembling in every limb, and groaning aloud J trasted strangely with his mental energy, bore 
His fellow-passengers looked at each other rather / down upon the "grave man-servant like an ava- 
nerveusly, and two out of the three entertained '< lanche, and carried him whither it would. He 
serious thoughts of changing carriages when the } was fain to abandon all hope of being true to the 
express stopped midway between London and 'promises which he had given to Mrs. Arundel 
Lincoln. ' and the medical men, and to yield himself to the 

But they were reassured by-and-by ; for the in- \ will of the fiery young soldier, 
valid, who was Captain Edward Arundel, or that) He left Edward Arundel sitting upon a chair 
pale shadow of the dashing young cavalry officer } in the solitary waiting-rooro, a and hurried after 
which had risen ffom a sick-bed, relapsed into } the porter who had volunteered to show him the 
sii*nce, arid displayed no more alarming symp-> way to the George Inn, the most prosperous hotel 
toms than that perpetual restlessness and disquie- ; in Swampington. 

tude which is cruelly wearying even to the ;. The valet had good reason to be astonished by 
strongest nerves. He only spoke once more, and ', his young master's energy and determination ; for 
that was when the short day, in which there had} Mary Marchmont's husband was as one rescued 
been no actual daylijht, was closing in, and the } from the very jaws of death. For twelve weeks 
journey nearly finished, when he startled his com-; after that terrible concussion upon the South- 
panions by eryini; out, auddenly, ' . western Railway, Edward Arundel had lain in a 

'O ray God, will this journey never eome r,o an j state of coma — helpless, mindless ; all the story 
end? Shall I ne*er he put out of this horrible j of his life blotted away, and his brain transformed 
saspense?' \ into as blank a page, as if he had been an infant 

.The jonrney, of, at any rate, Captain Arundel's 'lying on his mother's knees. A fractured skull 
share of it, earns to an end almost immediately j had been the young Captaia's chief share in 
afterward, for. the traie stopped at Swamping- those injuries which were dealt out pretty freely 
too ; and while the irrvalid was staggering feebly! to the travelers in the Exeter mail on the 14th oi 
fo hit feet, eager to scramble out of the carriage, August ; and the young man had been conveyed 
his servant came to the doqr to assist and sup-! to Dangerfield Park, while his father's corpse 
port hfen. - ' j lay in stately seiemnity in one of the chief rooms, 

'You seem to have berno the journey wondtfr-j almost a« much a corpse a« that dead father, 
ful. Sir,' the man said, respeetfully, as he tried! Mrs. Arundt'i's troubles had come, as the 

to rearrange his master's wrappings, and to do a$j 
much as circumstances, and the young man's; 

troubles of rich and prosperous people often do 

.»u^.. -» . w ,come, in a. sudden avalanche, that threatened to 

restless impatience, would allew of being done \ overwhelm the tender-hearted matron. She had 

for his comfort. I been summoned from Germany to attend her 

•1 have suffered (he torture* of the infernal re-| husband's death bed ; and she win called away 

tfm*, Morn****' C*pt«in AmndeJ'ajaeulated, in} from her faithful watch b**M« that death-bwl, 


to hear tidings of the terrible accident that had > mother's mourning garments were worn in me.-i- 
befallen her younger son. /oryof his dead father. lis learned also, after 

Neither the Dorsetshire doctor who attended 'i much bewilderment and passionf*-. questioning, 

rti.bpni m v.i«„nA»),;.k.... i : ( "-' --• tidings of Mary Marchuiont had ever 

the stricken traveler upon his homeward journey, J that no tidings of 1 
and brought the strong man, helpless as" i ehi'd, /come to Djngerfield. 

to claim the 
watched over 
gave any 

same lender- devotion that had/ It was I hon that the youYig man told his mother 

his infancy, nor the Devonshire ' the story of his marriage ; how that marriage had 

who were summoned to Dangcrfield, t been contracted in haste-, hut with no real desire 

• hope of their patient's recovery. The / for secresy ; how he had, out of mere idlenesg, 

sufferer might linger for years, they said ; hut his? put oil' writing to his friends untjl 1'it last fatal 

existence would be only a living death, a horri-/ night ; and .how, at the' very moment when the 

ble blank, which it was a cruelty to wish pro- 
longed. But when a great London surgeon ap- 
peared upon the scene, a neve" light, a wonderful 
gleam of hope, jhone in upon the blackness of 
the mother's despair. 
This great London surgeon, who was a ver 

pea wp-s in his hand and the paper spread out be- 
fore him, the different claims of a double duty 
had torn him asunder, and he had been sum- 
moned from the companionship of his bride to 
the death-bed of his father. 

Mrs. Arundel tried in vain to set her son's 

unassuming and matter-of-fact little man, and /mind at rest upon the subject of his wife's 
who seemed in a great hurry to earn his fee and /silence. 

run back to Saville Row by the next express, / 'No, mother !' he cried ; 'it is useless talking to 
made a brief examination of the patient, asked /me. You don't know my poor darling. She has 
a very few sharp and trenchant questions of the / the courage of a heroine as well as the simplicity- 
reverential provincial medical practitioners, and /of a child. There has been some foul play at 
then declared that the chief cause of Edward / the bottom of this ; it is treachery that has kept 
Arundel's state lay in the fact that a portion of / my wife from me. She would have come here 
the skull was depressed — a splinter pressed upon 'z on foot had she been free to come. I know 

the brain. 

/whose hand is in this business. Olivia March- 

The provincial practitioners opened their eyes > aiont has ktfpt my poor girl a prisoner; Olivia 
very wide ; and one of them ventured td'friutter / Marchmont has set herself between me and my 
something to the effect that he had thought as/darling!' 

much for a long time. The London surgeon fur- < 'But you don't know this, F,dward. I'll write 
ther stated, that until the pressure was removed < to Mr. Pauiette ; he -rill be a.ole to tell us what 
from the patie*nt's brain, Captain Edward Arun- has happened.' 

del would remain in precisely the same state ass The young man writhed in a paroxysm of men- 
that into which he had fallen immediately upon tal agony. 

the aceident. The splinter could only "be re- 'Write to Mr. Pauiette !' he exclaimed. No, 
moved by a very critical operation, and this ope- J mother ; there shall be pr delay, no waiting for 
ration must be deferred until the patient's bodily J return posts. That sort of torture would kill me 
strength was in some measure restored. $ in. a few hours. No, mother; I wiil go to my 

The surgeon gave brief but decisive directions > t wife by the first train tha^ r'l take me on rry 
to the provincial medical men as to the treatment <way to Lincolnshire.' 

of their patient during this interregnum, and then \ 'You will go ! You, Edward ! in your state!' 
departed, after promising to return as soon as > t There was a terrible outburst of remonstrance 
Captain Arundel was in a fit state for the opera- ( and entreaty on. the part of the poor mother, 
tion. This period did not arrive till the first) Mrs. Arundel wsr.t down upon her knees before 
week in November, when the Devonshire doc- ' t her son, imploring him not to leave Dangerfield 
tors ventured to declare thfir rsatient's shattered ' t till his strength was recovered; imploring him to 
frame in a great measure uovated by their de- J let her telerrf, -iph a summons to Richard Pauiette; 
voted attention, and the tender care of the best ^ to let her gtS ! herself to Marchmont Towers in 
of .aothers. ^search of Mary; to do any thing rather than 

_ The great surgeon came. The critical opera- J carry out that one m~d purpose that he was bent 
tion was performed, with such eminent success as j on — the purpose of going himself to look for his 
to merit a very long description which afterward ', wife. 

appeared in the Lancet; and slowly, like the J The mother's tears and prayers were vain ; no 
gradual lifting of a curtain, the b'ack shadows; adamant was ever firmer- than the young soldier, 
passed away from Edward Arundel's mind, and ', 'She is my wife, mother,' he s»id ; 'I have 
the memory of the past returned to him. ; sworn to protect and cherish her; and I have 

It was then that he raved madlv about his j reason to think she has fallen into merciless 
young wife, perpetually demanding that she ', hands. If I die upon the road, I must go to her. 
might be summoned to him; continually dee*lar- < It is not a case in which I can do my duty by 
ing that some great misfortune would befall her \ proxy. Every moment I delay is a wrong to that 
if she were not brought to his side, that, even in < poor helpless girl. Be reasonable, dear mother, 
his feebleness, he might d»fend and protect her. ) I implore you; I should suffer fifty times more 
His mother mistook his vehemence for the raving (by the torture of suspense if I staid here, than I 
of delirium. The doctors fell into the same error, jean possibly suffer in a railroad' joucney from hero 
and treated him for brain-fever. It was only \ to Lincolnshire.' 

when the young soldier demonstrated to them j The soldier's strong will triumphed over every 
that he could, by making an effort over himself, < opposition. The provincial doctors held up their 
be as reasonable as they were, that he convinced < hands, and protested against we madnesi oti their 
them of their mistake. Then he begged to be patient ; but without avail. All that either Mrs. 
left alone with his mother ; and, with his fever- Arundel or the doctors could do was to make 
ish hands clasped in hers, asked her themeaning j such preparations and arrangements as Would 
of her black dress, and ihe reason why his young render the wearr journ«y easier ; and it was un- 
wrfe badfnot come to mm, He learned that hisfder the mother's superintendence that the air 


cushions, the brandy-flasks, the hartshorn, sal 
volatile, and railway-rugs had been provided for 
the Captain's cgmfort. 

It was thus that, after a blank interval of three 
months, Edward Arande], like some creature 
newly risen from the grave, returned to Swamp- 
ington, upon his way to Marchmont Towers. 

The delay teemed endless to this restless pas- 
senger, sitting in the empty waiting-room of the 
quiet Lincolnshire station, though the hostler and 
stable-boys at the George were bestirring them- 
selves with good-will, urged on by Mr. "Morrison's 
promise of liberal reward for their trouble, and 
though the man who was to drive the carriage 
lost no time in arraying himself for the journey. 
Captain Arundel looked at his watch three times 
while lie sat in that dreary Swampington wait- 
ing-room. There was a clock over the mantle- 
piece, but he would »ot trust to that. 

'Eight o'clock!' he muttered. 'It will be ten 
before I get to the Towers, if the carriage doesn't 
come directly.' 

He got up, and walked from the waiting-room 
to the platform, and from the platform to the 
door of the station. He was so weak as to be 
obliged to support himself with his stick ; and 
even with that help he tottered and reeled some- 
times like a drunken man. But, in his eager 
impatience, he was almost unconscious of his 
own weakness, unconscious of nearly every thing 
except the intolerable slowness of the progress of 

'Will it never come?' he muttered. 'Will it 
never comer' 

But even this almost unendurable delay was not 
(mite interminable. The carriage-and-pair from 
the George Inn rattled up to the door of the sta- 
tion, with JVIr. Morrison upon the box, and a 
postillion loosely balanced upon one of the long- 
legged, long-backed, bony gray horses. Edward 
Arundel got into the vehicle before his valet 
could alight to assist him. 

'Marchmont Towers!' he cried to the postil- 
lion ;' and a rive-pound note if you get there in 
less than an hour !' 

He flung some money to the officials who had 
gathered absut the door to witness his departure, 
and who had eagerly pressed forward to render 
him that assistance which, even in his weakness, 
he disdained. 

These men looked gravely at each other as the 
carriage dashed off into the fog, blundering and 
reeling as it went along the narrow half-made 
road, that led from the desert patch of waste 
ground upon which the station was built into the 
high street of Swampington. 

'Marchmont Towers!' said one of the men, in 
a tone that seemed to imply that there was some- 
thing- ominous even in the name of the Lincoln- 
shire mansion. 'What does k want at March- 
rnoht Towers, I wonder?' 

'Why, don't you know who he is, mate?' re- 
sponded the other man, contemptuously. 

'He's Parson, Arundel's nevy — the young officer 
that some folks said ran away with poor young 
miss oop at the Towers •' 

'My word ! is he, now? Why, I shouldn't ha' 
known him.' 

•No ; he's a'most like the ghost of what he 
was, poor youBg chap! I've heerd as he was in 
that accident as happened last August in the 
Sou 'western.' 
The railway officii thrugg«d bis shoulders. 

> 'It's all a queer story,' he said. 'I can't make 
i out naught about it ; but I know J shouldn't care 
I to go up to Die Towers after dark.' 
\ Marchmont Towers had evidently fallen into 
rather evil repute among these simple Lincoln- 
j m!i ire ptfople. 

1 The carriage in which Edward Arundel rode 
was a superannuated old chariot, whose uneasy 
springs rattled and shook the sick man to pieces. 
He groaned aloud every now and then from sheer 
physical agon/; and yet 1 almost doubt if he 
knew that he suffered, so superior in its intensity 
was the pain of his mind to every bodily torture. 
Whatever consciousness he had of his racked and 
aching limbs was as nothing in cftmparison to the 
racking anguish of suspense, (he intolerable 
agony of anxiety, which seemed multiplied by 
every momeiit. He sat with his face turned to- 
ward the open window of the carriage, looking 
out steadily into the night. There was' nothing 
before him but a blank darkness and thick fog, 
and a flat country blotted out by the falling rain; 
but he strained his eyes until the pupils dilated 
painfully, in his desire to recognize some land- 
mark in the hidden prospect. 

' When shall I get there ?' he cried aloud, in a 
paroxysm of rage and grief. 'My own one, my 
pretty one, my wife, when shall I get to you?' 

He clenched his thin hands until the nails cut 
into his flesh. He stamped upon the floor of the 
carriage. He cursed the rusty, creaking springs, 
the slow-footed horses, the pools of wator through 
which the wretched animals floundered pastern- 
deep. He cursed the darkness of the night, the 
stupidity of the postillion, the length of the way — 
every thing and any thing that kept him back 
from the end which he wanted to reach. 

At last the end came. The carriage drew up 
before the tall iron gates, behind which stretched, 
dreary and desolate as some patch of common- 
land, that melancholy waste which was called a 

A light burned dimly in the lower window of 
the lodge — a little spot that twinkled faintly red 
and luminous through the darkness and the rain ; 
but the iron gates were as closely shut as if 
Marchmont Towers had been a prison-house. 
Edward Arundel was in no humor to linger long 
for the opening of those gates. He sprang from 
the carriage, reckless of the weakness of his 
cramped limbs, before the valet could descend 
from the rickety box-seat, or the postillion could 
get off his horse, and shook the wet and rusty 
iron bars with his wasted hands. The gates rat- 
tled, but resisted the concussion. They had evi- 
dently been locked for the night. The young 
man seized an iron ring, dangling at the end of a 
chain , which hung beside one of the stone pillars, 
and tang a peal that resounded like an alarm- 
signal through the darkness. A fierce watch-dog 
far away in the distance howled dismally at the 
summons, find the dissonant shriek of a peacock 
echoed across the fiat. 

The door of the lodge was opened about five 
minutes after the hell had rung^and an old man 
peered out into the night, holding a candle shaded 
by his feeble hand, and looking; suspiciously to- 
ward the gate. 

'Who is it?' he said. 

•It is I— Captain Arundel, ©pen the gate, 

The man, who was very old, and whose intel- 
lect seemed to have grown as dim and foggy as 


the night itself, reflected for a few moments, and ; tried to recover enough strength with which to 
' ' ' clamber into the vehicle, when his eye was 

caught by some wh^te object flapping in the ram 
against the stone pillar of the gate, and made 
dimly visible in a flickering patch of light from 
the lodge-keeper's lantern. 

'What's that!' he cried, pointing to this white 
spot upon the raoss-grown stone. 

The old man slowly raised his eyes to the spot 
towards which the soldier's finger pointed. 

'That?' he mumbled. 'Ay, to be sure, to be 

sure. Poor young lady ! That's the printed bill 

\ as they stook oop. It's the 'printed bill, 

then mumbled, 

'Cap 'en Arundel! ay, to be sure, to be sure. 
Parson Arundel's nevy ; ay, ay.' 

He went back into the lodge, to the disgust and 
aggravation of the young soldier, who rattled 
fiercely at the gate once more in his impatience. 
But the old man emerged presently, as tranquil as 
if the Black November night had been some sun- 
shiny noontide in July, carrying a lantern and a 
bunch of keys, one of which he proceeded in a 
leisurely manner to apply to the great lock of the; 
gate. ■ 5 * . 

'Let me in,' cried Edward Arundel; 'man ; sure, to be sure. I'd a 'most forgot, rt. It ain t 
alive, do you think I came down here to stand all ; been much good, any' how ; and I'd a 'most for- 
night staring through these iron bars ? Is March- ; got it.' 

mont Towers a prison, that you shut your gates; 'The printed bill ! the young lady !' gasped Ed- 
as if they were never to be opened until the Day; ward Arundel, in a hoarse, choking voice, 
of Judgment?' \ He snatched the lantern from the lodge-keep- 

The old man responded with a feeble, chirpy? er's hand with a force that sent the old man reel- 
laugh, an audible grin, senile and conciliatory, ; ing and tottering several paces backward ; and, 

'We've no need to keep t' geates open arter ( rushing to the stone pillar, held the light «p 
dark,' he said ; 'folk don 't coome to the Toowers J above his head , on a level with the'white placard 
arter dark.' [which had attracted his notice. It was damp and 

He had succeeded by this time in turning the} dilapidated at the edges; but that which was 
key in the lock ; one of the gates rolled slowly ; printed upon it was as visible to the soldier as 
back upon its rusty hinges, creaking and groan- {though each commonplace character had been a 
ing as if in hoarse protest against all visitors to j fiery sign inscribed upon a blazing scroll. 
the Towers ; and Edward Arundel entered the? This was the announcement which Edward 
dreary domain which John Marchmont had in- j Arundel read upon the gate-post of Marchmont 
herited from his kinsman. ; Towers : 

The postillion turned his horses from the high; 
joad without the gates into the broad drive lead- J 'One Hundred Founds Reward. — Whereas, 
ing up to the mansion. Far away, across the; Miss Mary .Marchmont left her home on Wednes- 
wet flats, the broad western front of that gaunt; day last, October 17th, and has not since been 
stone dwelling-place frowned upon the travelers,; heard of, this is to give notice that the above re- 
its black grimness only relieved by two or three ( ward will be given to anyone who shall afford 
dim red patches, that told of lighted windows and ', such information as will lead to her recovery if 
human habitation. It was rather difficult to as- ', she be alive, or to the discovery of her body, if 
sociate friendly flesh and blood with Marchmont < she be dead. The missing young lady is eighteen 
Towers on this dark November night. The ner- ; years of age, rather below the middle height, of 
vous traveler would have rather expected to find; fair complexion, light-brown hair, and hazel 
diabolical denizens lurking within those black; eyes. When she left her home she had on a gray 
and stony walls ; hideous enchantments beneath ; silk dress, gray shawl, and straw bonnet. She 
that rain-bespattered roof; weird and incarnate ', was last seen near the river-side upon the after- 
horrors brooding by deserted hearths ; and fear-; noon of Wednesday, the 17th instant, 
ful shrieks of souls in perpetual pain breaking;! 'Marchkoxt Towers, Oct, 20,1818.' 
upon the stillness of the night. '/ # 

Edward Arundel had no thought of these > ^^ 

things. He knew that the place was darksome; • 

■and gloomy, and that, in very spite of himself,; 
he had always been unpleasantly impressed by it,; 
but he knew nothing more. He only wanted to ', 

reach the house without delay, and to ask for the; *■ . . ,. , , 

young wife whom he had parted with upon a J It is not easy to imagine a lion-hearted young 
lalmy August evening three months before. He [ cavalry-officer, whose soldiership in the PunjauB 
wanted this passionately, almost madly; and J had won the praises of a Napier and an Outram, 
every moment made his impatience wilder, his \ fainting away like a heroine of romance at the 
anxiety more intense. It seemed as if all the coming of evil tidings; but Edward Arundel, 
journey from Dangerfield Park to Lincolnshire who had risen from a sick-bed to take a long and 
was as nothing compared to the ? r>ace that still; fatiguing journey in utter defiance of the doctors, 
lay between him and Marchmont Towers. ', was not strong enough to bear the dreadful wel- 

'We'vedone it in double-quick time, Sir,' the ! , come that greeted him upon the gate-post at 
postillion said, complacently pointing to the ', Marchmont Towers. 

steaming sides of his horses. 'Master '11 gie it! He staggered, and would have fallen, had not 
me for driving the beasts like this. ' the extended arms of his father's confidential 

Edward Arundel looked at the panting ani- servant been luckily opened to receive and^sup- 
nials. They had brought him quickly, then, < port him. But he did not lose his senses. 
though the way had seemed so long. \ ' Get me into the carriage, Morrison,' he cried. 

'You shall have a five-pound note, my lad,' he <' Get me up to that house. They've tortured 
said, 'if you get me up to yonder house in five j and tormented my wife while I've been lying like 
minutes.' \ a log on my bed at Dangerfield. For God's sake, 

lie had his hand upon the door of the carriage, \ get me up there as quick as you can.' 
and was leaning against it for support, while he j Mr. Morrison had read the placard on the gate 




across his younsr master's shoulder. He lifted } profile was turned toward the door by which 
ths Captain into the carriage, snouted to the J Edward Arundel entered the room; her eyes 
postilion to drire on, and took his seat by the j were bent steadily upon the low heap 'of burning 
young man's side. i ashes in the grate. .Even in that doubtful light 

' Begging your pardon, Mr. Edward,' he said, j the young man could see that her features were 
gently; ' but thi young lady may be found by this j sharpened, and that a settled frown had contracted 
time. That bill's been sticking there for upward iher straight black brows. , 

of a month, you see, Sir, ard it isn't likely but \ In her fixed attitude, in her air of death-like 
what Miss Marchmont has been found between ' tranquility, this woman resembled some sinful 
that time and this.' \ vestal sister; set, against her will, to watch a 

The' invalid passed his hand across his fore- ' sacred Are, and brooding moodily over her crimes. 
head, down which the cold sweat rolled in great She did not hear the opening of the door; she 
beads. had not even heard the tramplirg of the horses' 

' Give me some brandy,' he whispered; 'pour j hoofs, cr the crashing of the wheels upon the 

struggle that lies before me. pen 

The valet took a wicker-covered flask from j nate despair. 
his pocket, and put the neck of it to Edward j ' Olivia !' said the soldier. 
Arundel's lips. j Mrs. Marchmont. looked up at the sound of 

•She maybe found. Morrison,' muttered the S that accusing voice. Tor there was something in 
young man, after drinking r long draught' of the ( Edward Arundel's simple enunciation of her 
fiery spirit; he would willingly have drunk living ! name which ssemed like an accusation or a 
fire itself, in his desire to obtain unnatural menace. She looked up, with a great terror in 
strength in this crisis. ' Yes; you're right there, her face, and starch v,hast at her unexpected 
She may be found. But to think that she should visitor. Her white cheeks, her trembling lips, 
have' been driven away ! To think that my poor, and dilated eyes could not have more palpably 
helpless, tender girl should have been driven a expressed a great and absorbing horror had the 
second time from the honid that is her own ! Yes;jyoung man standing quietly before her been a 
her own by every law and ever} right. Oh, the j corpse newly risen from its grave, 
relentless devil, the pitiless devil!' — what can be 'Olivia Marchmont,' said Captain Arundel, 
the motive of her conduct ? Is it madness, or the after a brief pause, 'I have come here to look 
infernal cruelty c f a <iend incarnate.'' for my wife.' 

Mr. Morrison thought that his young muster's J The woman pushed her trembling hands across 
brain had been disordered by the shock he had \ her forehead, brushing the dead black hair from 
just undergone, and that this wild talk was mere \ either temple, and still staring with the same un- 
delirium. i utterable horror at the face of her cousin. Seve- 

' Keep your heart up, Mr. Edward,' he inur- \ ral times she tried to speak: but the broken sylla- 
mured, soothingly; 'you may rely upon it the \ bles died away in her throat in hoarse, inarlicu- 
young lady has been found. ' ; late mutterings. At last, with a great effort, the 

But Edward was in no mind to listen to any J words came, 
mild consolatory remarks from his valet. He; 'I — I — never expected to see you,' she said; 
had thrust his head out of the carriage-window, ) ' I heard that you were very ill; 1 heard that 
and his eyes were fixed upon the dimly-lighted 1 you—' 

casements of the western drawing-room. j 'You heard that I was dying,' interrupted 

' The room in which John arid Polly and I used i Edward Arundel; ' or that if I lived I should drag 

to sit together when first 1 came from India,' he ; out the rest of my existence in hopeless idiocy. 

murmured. ' How happy we were! how happy j The doctors thought as much a waek ago, when 

we were!' « one of them, , cleverer than the rest, I suppose, 

The carriage stopped before the stone portico, I had the. courage to perform an operation that re- 

and the young man got out'once more, assisted by j stored me to consciousness. Sense and memory 

his servant. His breath came short and quick j came back to me by degrees. The thick veil that 

now that he stood upon the threshold. He pushed < had sl./ouded the past was rent asunder; and the 

.aside the servant who opened the familiar door < first image that came to me was the image of my 

;;t the summons of the clanging bell, and strode young wife, as I had "jeen her upon the night of 

into the hall. A fire burned on the wide hearth; our parting. For more than three months I h^d 

but the atmosphere of the great 6tone-paved f been dead. I was suddenly restored to life. I 

chamber was damp and chiKy. ! asked those about me to give me tidings of my 

Captairr. Arundel walked straight to the door of wife. Had she sought me out? had she followed 

the western drawing-room. It was there that he me to Dangerfield? No! They c'ould tell me 

had seen^ights in the windows; it was thu-e that nothing. They thought that I was delirious, and 

he expecHed to find Olivia Marchmont. J tried to soothe me with compassionate speeches, 

He was i.">t mistaken. A shaded lamp burned merciful falsehoods, promising me that I should 

dimly on a table near the fire. There was a low! see my darling. But 1 soo;i read the secret of 

invalid-chair beside this table, an open book upon j their scared looks. ] saw pity and wonder min- 

the floor, and an Indian shawl, one he had sent to s gled in mv Mother's focc s an'd 1 entreated her to 

his cousin, flung carelessly upon the pillows. The \ oe merciful to me, and to tell me the truth. She 

neglected fire burned low in the old-fashioned had compassion upon me, and told me all she 

grata, and a'^'e t'<e dull red blaze stood the^kneu', which was very little. She had never 

■ii-ure of a .nan, tall, dark, and -loomy of'Uieard from my wife. She had never heard of 

->ect. ] aiiv msn'i'iof.e between Mary Marehmontand inc.. 

' "-as °'ivia Marchmont. in th • uionrr.;:jg • "!•« 'imy on^Hiir'ica'ion which she. hud received 

,/oj iliui sne had worn, with but one oriel iuusi-i from any ci ;ier Lincolnshire relations had been 

mission, ever since her husband's death. Hen an occasional letter from my Uncle Hubert, hi 


reply to one cf hers telling him of my hopeless j face as the sunlight disappears behind the sudden 
state. darkness of a thunder-cloud. 

' This was the shock that fell up-n me when ' What question ?' she asked, with icy mdiffer- 
life and memory came back. I could not bear I ence. . . 

the imprisonment of a siek-bed. I felt that for I ' The-question I have come to Lincolnshire to 
the second time I must go out into the world to j ask; the question I have periled my life, perhaps, 
look for my darling; and in defiance of the doc- 1 to ask,' cried the young man. 'Where is my 
tors, in defiance of my poor mother, who thought wife.?' 

that my departure from Dangerfield was a sui- The widow irned upon him with a horrible 
cide, I am here. It is here that I come first to smile. 

geek for my wife. I might have stopped in Lon- ' I never heard that you were married,' she 
don to bee Puchard Paulette. I might sooner said. ' Who is your wife?' 
have gained tidings of my darling. But I came ' Mary Marchmont, the mistress of this house.' 
here; 1 came here without stopping by the way, I Olivia opened her eyes and looked at him in 
because an uncontrollable instinct and an v.a- i half-sardonic surprise, 
reasoning impulse tells me that it is here I ought j ' Then it was not a fable ?' she said, 
to seek her. I am here, her husband, her only < ' What was not a fable.?' 
true and legitimate defender; and woe be to those j ' The unhappy girl spoke the truth when she 
who stand between me and my wife !' \ said that you had married her at some out-of-the- 

He had spoken rapidly in his passion; and he J way church in Lambeth.' 
stopped, exhausted by his own vehemence, and i 'The truth! Yes!' cried Edward Arundel. 
sank heavily into a chair near the lamplit table, j ' Who should dare to say that she spoke other 
and only a few paces from the widow. i than the truth ? Who should dare to disbelieve 

Then for tbe first time that night Olivia March- : , her ?' 
mont plainly saw her cousin's face, and saw the !■ Olivia Marchmont smiled again — the samehor- 
terrible change that had transformed the hand- irible smile that was almost too horrible for hu- 
some young soldier since tbe bright August morn- ; manity, and yet had a certain dark and gloomy 
ing on which he had gone forth from Marchmont I grandeur of its own. Satan, the star of the morn- 
Towers. She saw the traces of a long and weari- , ing, may have so smiled despairing defiance upon 
some illness sadly visible in his waxen complexion, 'the Archangel Michael. 

his hollow cheeks, the faded lustre of his eyes,; ' Unfortunately,' she said, ' no one believed the 
his dry and pallid lips. She saw all this, the wo- ! poor child. Her story was such a very absurd 
man whose one great sin had been to love this | one, and she could bring forward no shred of evi- 
man wickedly and madly, in spite of her better jdence in support of it.'' 

self, in spite of her womanly pride; she saw the | 'O my God!' ejaculated Edward Arundel, 
change in him that had altered him from a young < clasping his hands above his head in a paroxysm 
Appollo to a shattered and broken invalid. And !of rage and despair. ' I see it all; I see it all. 
did any revulsion of feeling arise in her breast? \ My darling has been tortured to death. Woman !' 
did any corresponding transformation in her own ; he cried, 'are you possessed by a thousand fiends? 
heart bear witness to the baseness of her love ? \ Is there no one sentiment of womanly compassion 

No; a thousand times, no ! There was no thrill J left in your breast ? If there is one spark of wo- 
of disgust, how transient soever; not so much 'vs : manhood in your nature, I appeal to that. I ask 
one passing shud'der of painful surprise, one pa.i ^ j you what has happened to my wife ?' 
of womanly regret. No! In place of theses a; ' My wife ! my wife!' The reiteration of that 
passionate yearning arose in this woman's haughty I familiar phrase was to Olivia Marchmont like the 
soul; a flood of sudden tenderness rushed across (perpetual thrust of a dagger aimed at an open 
the black darkness of her mind. She would have ; wound. It struck every time upon the same tor- 
flung herself upon her knees, in loving self-abase- i tured spot, and inflicted the same agony, 
ment, at the sick man's feet. She would have ; ' The placard upon the gates of this place can 
cried aloud amidst a tempest of passionate sobs: , tell you as much as I can,' she said. 

* Oh my love, my love ! you are dearer to me a j The ghastly whiteness of the soldier's face told 
hundred times by this cruel change. It was not \ her that he had seen the placard of which she 
your bright blue eyes and waving chestnut hair— [ spoke. 

it was not your handsome face, your brave soldier- ; 'She has not been found then?' he said, 
like bearing — that I loved. My love was not so hoarsely, 
base as that. I inflicted a cruel outrage upon my- ;■ 'No.' 
self when I thought that I was the weak fool of; ' How did she disappear?' 
a handsome face. Whatever /have been, my! ' As she disappeared upon the morning on which 
love, at least, has been pure. My love is pure,! you followed her. She wandered out of the 
though I am base. I will never slander that i house, this time leaving no letter, nor message, 
again, for £ know now that it is immortal.' : nor explanation of any kind whatever. It was' 

In the sudden rush of that flood-tide of lov.e j in the middle of the day that she went out; and 
and tenderness, all these thoughts welled into for some time her absence caused no alarm, as 
Olivia Marchmont's mind. In all her sin and | she had been in the habit of going out alone into 
desperation she had never been so true a woman \ the* grounds whenever she chose. Bui, after 
as now. She had never, perhaps, been so near, some hours, she was wailed for and watcheel for 
being a good woman. But the tender emotion ! very anxiously. Then a search was made.' 
was swept out of her breast the next moment by 'Where?' 
the first words of Edward Arundel. > ' Wherever she had been in the haiiit of walk- 

' Why do you not answer my question?' he ; ing— in the park; in the wood;, along the naivow 

said. ' ; path by the water; at Pollard's farm; at Hester's 

She drew herself up in the erect and rigid at- ! house at Kemberling — in every place where it 

titude that had become almost habitual to her, ' might be reasonably imagined there was the 

Every trace of womanly feeling faded out of her . slightest chance of finding her. ' 


'And all this was without result?' ,' ' I flic!,' answered Olivia. 

'It was.' < You lie,' cried Edward Arundel. ' You know 

' Why did she leave this place ? God help you, the poor child had spokeu the truth. You knew 
Olivia Marchmont, if it was your cruelty "that her— you knew me— well enough to know that I 
drove her away.' " should not have detained her away from her home 

The widow took no notice cf the threat im- ; an hour, except to make her my wife, except to 
plied in these words. Was there any thing upon , give myself the strongest right to love and defend 
earth that she feared now? No; nothing. -Had, her.' 

she not endured the worst, long ago, in Edward ; 'I knew nothing of the kind, Captain Arundel; 
Arundel's contempt? She had no fear of a battle ; you and Mary Marchmont had taken good care to 
with this man; or with any other creature in the ikeep your secrets from me. I knew nothing of 
world; or with the whoie world arrayed and ; your plots, your intentions. I should have con- 
banded together against her, if need were. ; sidered that one of the Dangerfield Arundels 
Among all the torments of those black depths to ) would have thought his honor sullied by such an 
which her soul had gone down there was no such ', act as a stolen marriage with an heiress, consid- 
thing as fear. That cowardly baseness is for the ; : erably under age, and nominally in the guardian- 
happy and prosperous, who have something to 'ship of her step-mother. I did, therefore, disbe- 
iose, This woman was by nature dauntless and ' lieve the story Mary Marchmont told me. An- 
resolute as the hero of some classic story; but in Mother person, much more experienced than me, 
her despair she had the desperate and reckless ', also disbelieved the unhappy girl's account of her 
courage of a starving wolf. The hand of death ■ absence.' 

was upon her; what could it matter how she' 'Another person? What other person ?' 
died? ', 'Mr. March ..on f 

"' I am very grateful to you, Edward Arundel,' ', 'Mr. Marchmoni?' 

she said, bitterly, ' for the good opinion you have ' 'Yes; Paul Marchmont — my husband's first- 
a.lways had of me. The blood of the Danger- ;' cousin.' • 

field Arundels must have had seme drop of poison j A sudden cry of rage and grief broke from Ed- 
intermingled with it, I should think, before it ', ward Arundel's lips. 

could produce such a vile creature as me; audi 'O my God!' he exclaimed, 'there was some 
yet I have heard people say my mother was a ; foundation for the warning in John Marchmont's 
good woman.' , letter, after all. And I laughed at him; I laughed 

The young man writhed impatiently beneath ' at my poor friend's fears.' 
the torture of his cousin's deliberate speech.' The widow looked at her kinsman in mute 
Was there to be no end to this unendurable delay ? .' wonder. 

Even now — now that he was in this house, face : 'Has Paul Marchmont been in this house ?' he 
to face with the woman he had come to question, < asked, 
it seemed as if he could not get tidings of his :■ 'Y~es.' 
wife. • 'When was he here?' 

So, often in his dreams, he had headed a be-' 'He has been here often. Pie comes here con- 
. sieging party against the Afghans, with the seal- ; stantly. He has been living at Kemberling for 
ing-ladders reared against the wall, and his men ; the last three months.' 
behind urging him on to the encounter, and had ' '.Why?' 

felt himself paralyzed and helpless, with his' 'For his own pleasure, I suppose,' Olivia an- 
sabre weak as a withered reed in his nerveless : swered,' haughtily. 'It is no business of mine to 
hand. ; pry into Mr. Marchmont's motives.' 

'For God's sake, 1st there be no quarreling Edward Arundel ground his teeth in an excess 
with phrases between you and me, Olivia!' he ; of ungovernable passion. It was not against 
cried. ' If you or any other living being have ' Olivia but against himself this time that he was 
injured my wife, the reckoning between us shall ,< enraged. He hated himself for the arrogant folly, 
be no light one. But there will be time enough 'the obstinate presumption, with which he had ridi- 
to talk of that by-and-by. I stand before you 'culed and slighted John Marchmont's vague fears 
newly risen from a grave in which I have lain for ,' of his kinsman Paul. 

more than three months; as dead to the world,' 'So this man has been here — is here constantly,' 
and to every creature I have evdr loved or hated, : he muttered. 'Of course; it is only natural that 
as if the Funeral Service had been read over my ; he should hang about the place. And you and he 
coffin. I come to demand from you an account 'are stanch allies, I suppose?' he added, turning 
of what has happened during that interval. If ; upon Olivia, 
you palter or prevaricate with me, I shall know ; 'Stanch allies ! Why?' 
that it is because you fear tc tell me the truth.' ; 'Because you both hate my wife.' 

'Fear!' ' \ 'What do you mean?' 

' Yes; you have good reason to fear, if you' 'You both hate her.. You, out of a base envy 
have wronged Mary Arundel. Why did she leave ! of her wealth; because of her superior rights, 
this house?' ! which made you a secondary person in this house, 

' Because she was not happy in it, T suppose. : perhaps — there is nothing else for which you 
She. chose to shut herself up in her own r6ona, j covld hate her. Paul Marchmont, because she 
and to refuse to be governed, or advised, or con- '■ stands between him and a fortune. Heaven help 
soled. I tried to do my duty to her; yes,' cried i her ! Heaven help my poor, gentle, guileless 
Olivia Marchmont, suddenly raising her voice, as j darling. Surely Heaven must have had some 
if she had been vehemently contradicted — ' yes, j pity upon her when her husban.d was not by.' 
I did try to do my duty to her. I urged her to ! The. young roan dashed the blindi/jg tears from 
listen to reason; I begged her to abandon her ■ his eyes. They were the first that he had shed 
foolish falsehood about" a marriage with you in ; since he had risen from that which many people 
London.' | had thought his dying bed, to search for his wife. 

' You disbelieved in that marriage!' ,\ But this Was no tim& for tears or lamentations. 



Stern determination look the place of tender pity 
and sorrowful love. It was a time lor resolution 
and promptitude. 

•Olivia Marchmont,' he said, 'there has been 
some foul play in this, business. Mv wife has 
been missing a month; yet, when 1 asked ray 
mother what had happened at this house during 
my illness, she could tell me nothing. Why did 
you not write to tell her of Mary's flight?' 

'Because Mrs. Arundel has never done me the 
honor to cultivate any intimacy between us. My 
father writes to his sister-in-law sometimes. I 
scarcely ever write to my aunt. On the other 
hand, your mother had never seen Mary March- 
mont, and could not be expected to take any 
great interest in her proceedings. There was, 
therefore, no reason for my writing a special let- 
ter to announce the trouble that had befallen me. ' 

'You might have written to my mother about 
my marriage. You might have applied to her 
for confirmation of the story which you disbe- 

Olivia Marchmpnt smiled. 

'Should I have received that confirmation ?' she 
said. 'No. I saw your mother's letters to my 
father. There was no mention in those letters of 
aoy marriage; no mention whatever of Mary 
Marchmont. This in itself was enough to con- 
firm my disbelief. Was it reasonable to imagine 
that you would have married, and yet have left 
your mother in total ignorance of the fact?' 

'O God, help me!' cried Edward Arundel, 
wringing his hands. 'It seems as if my own folly, 
my own vile procrastination, have brought this 
trouble upon my wife. Olivia Marchmont, have 
pity upon me ! If you hate this girl, your malice 
must surely have been satisfied by this time. She 
has suffered enough. Pity me, and help me, if 
you have any human feeling in your breast. She 
left this house because her life here had grown 
unendurable; because she saw herself doubted, 
disbelieved, widowed in the first month of her 
marriage, utterly desolate and friendless. An- 
other woman might have borne up against all this 
misery. Another woman would have known how 
to assert herself, and to defend herself, even in 
the midst of her sorrow and desolation. But my 
poor darling is a child; a baby in ignorance of the 
world. How should she j-rctect herself against 
her enemies? Her only i>-s'! ict vis to runaway 
from her persecutors- -to hiue herself from those 
whose pretended doubts flung the horror of dis- 
honor upon her. I can understand all now; I can 
understand. Olivia Marchmont, this man Paul 
has a strong reason for being a villain. The mo- 
tives that have induced you to do wrong must be 
very small in comparison to his. He plays an in- 
famous game, 1 believe, but he plays for a high 

A high stake! Had not she periled her soul 
upon the casting of this die? Had she not flung 
down her eternal happiness in that fatal d game of 
hazard ? 

'Helpme, then, Olivia,' said Edward, implor- 
ingly; 'help me jo find my wife; and atone for 
all that you have ever done amiss in the past. It 
is not too late.' 

His voice softened as he spoke. He turned to 
her, with his hands clasped, waiting anxiously 
for her answer. Perhaps this appeal was the last 
cry of her good angel, pleading against the devils 
for her redemption. But the devils had too long 
held possession of this woman's breast. They, arrogant and unpitying, and hardened her 
heart afainstthat pleading voice. 

•How much he loves her!' thought Olivia 
Marchmont; 'how dearly he loves her; for her 
sake he humiliates himself to me.' 

Then, with no show of relenting in her voice 
or manner, she said, deliberately, 

'I can only tell you again what I told you be- 
fore. The placard you saw at the park gates can 
tell you as much as I can. Mary Marchmont 
ran away. She was sought for in every direction, 
but without success. Mr. -Marchmont, who is a 
man of the world, and better able to suggest what 
is right in such a case as this, suggested that Mr. 
Paulette should be sent for. He was accordingly- 
communicated with. He came and instituted a 
fresh search. He also caused a bill to be printed 
and distributed through the country. Advertise- 
ments were inserted in the Times and other papers. 
For some reason* — I forget what reason — Mary 
Marchmont's name did not appear in these ad- 
vertisements. They were so worded as to render 
the publication of the name unnecessary.'' 

Edward Arundel pushed his hand across his 

'Richard Paulette has been here !' he murmured 
in a low voice. 

He bad every confidence in the lawyer; and a 
deadly chill came over him at the thought that the 
cool, hard-headed solicitor had failed to find the 
missing girl. 

'Yes; he was here two or three days. ' 

'And he could* do nothing ?' 

'Nothing, except whatl have told you.' 

The young man thrust his hand into his breast 
to still the cruel beating of his heart. A sudden 
terror had taken possession of him — a horrible 
dread that he should never 16ok upon his young 
wife's face again. 

'There was something in that placard,' the sol- 
dier said at last, in a hoarse, altered voice — 'there 
was something about my wife having been seen 
last by the water-side. Who saw her 'there !' 

'Mr. Weston, a surgeon of Kemberling — Paul 
Marchmont's brother-in-law.' 

'Was she seen by no one .else ?' 

'Yes; she was seen at about the same time — a 
little sooner or later, we don't know which — by 
one of Farmer Pollard's men.' 

'And she has never been seen since?' 
* 'Never; that is to say, we can hear of no one 
who has seen her.' 

'At what time in the day was she seen by this 
Mr. Weston?' 

'At dusk; between five and six o'clock.' 

Edward Arundel put his hand suddenly to his 
throat, as if to check some choking sensation that 
prevented his speaking. 

'Olivia,' he said, 'my wife was last seen by the 
river-side. Does any one think that, by any un- 
happy accident, by any terrible fatality, she lost 
her way after dark, and fell 'into the water ?— or 
that— O God, that would be too horrible!— does 
any one suspect that she drowned herself?' 

'Many things have been said since her disap- 
pearance,' Olivia Marchmpnt answered. 'Some 
people say one thing, some another.' 

'And it has been said that she— that she was 

'Yes, many people have said so. Theriverwas 
dragged while Mr. Paulette was here, and after 
he went away. The men were at work with the 
drags for more than a week. ' 

*And they found nothing?' 


'Nothing.' i, man answered, indifferently ; 'I must be in Jvem- 

' Was there any other reason for supposing that > berling early to-morrow, for 1 must see Paul 

-that my wife fell into the river ?' ° .'Marchmont. I r\rn no nearer the comprehension 

'Only one reason.' ; of my wife's flight by any thing that you have 

'What was that?' ' tolci inc. It is "to Paul JVIarclimout that I must 

'I will show you, 'Olivia Marchmont answered. '> look next. Heaven help him if he tries to keep 

.•She took a bunch of keys from her pocket, and ' the truth from me.' 
went to an old-fashioned bureau or cabinet upon 'You will see Mr. Marchmont here as easily as 
the other side of the room. She unlocked the ' at Kcmberling,' Olivia answered. 'He comes 
upper part of this bureau, opened one of the here every day.' 
drawers, and took from it something which she ; 'What for ?' 
brought to Edward Arundel. '■ 'He has built a sort of painting-room down by 

This something was a little shoe; a little shoe the river-side, and he paints there whenever there 
of soft bronzed leather, stained and discolored ' is light.' 

with damp and moss, and trodden down upon one : 'Indeed !' cried Edward Arundel ; 'he make* 
side, as if the wearer had walked a weary way J himself at home at Marchmont Towers, then"?' 
in it, and had been unaccustomed to so much ', 'He has a right to do so, I suppose,' answered 
walking. 5 the widow, indifferently. 'If Mary Marchmont 

Edward Arundel remembered, in that brief, '■ is dead, this place and all belonging to it is his. 
childishly-happy honey-moon at the little village ;' As it is, I am only here on sufferance.' 
near Winchester, how often he had laughed at his ', 'He has taken possession, then ?' 
young wife's propensity for walking about damp ', 'On the contrary, he shrinks from'doing so.' 
meadows in such delicate little slippers as were , 'And, by the Heaven above us, he does wisely,' 
better adapted to the requirements of a,ball-room. \ cried Edward Arundel. 'No man shall seize upon 
He remembered the slender foot, so small that he ', that which belongs to my darling. No foul plot 
could take it in his hand; the feeble little foot/ of this artist-traitor shall rob her of her own. 
-that had grown tired in long wanderings by the ' God knows how little value I set upon her wealth; 
Hampshire trout-streams, but which had toiled on \ but I will stand between her and those who try 
in heroic self-abnegation so long as it was the will < 1 > rob her, u.itil my last gasp. No, Olivia, I'll 
of the sultan to pedestrianize. > i.. t stay here ; I'll accept no hospitality from Mr. 

'Was this found by the river-side ?' he asked, | L.archmont. I suspect him too much.' . 
looking piteously at the slipper which Mrs. March- j He walked to the door ; but before he reached 
mont had put into his hand. j it the widow went to one of the windows, and 

'Yes; it was found among the rushes on the 5 pushed aside the blind, 
shore,, a mile below the spot at which Mr. Wes- j 'Look at the rain,' she said ; 'hark at It ; don't 
ton saw my step-daughter.' you hear it drip, drip, drip upon the stone? I 

Edward Arundel put the little shoe into his wouldn't turn a dog out of doors upon such a 
bosom. ■ night as this ; and you — you are so ill — so weak. 

'I'll not believe it,' he cried, suddenly; 'I'll not Edward Arumjel, do you hate me so much that 
believe that my darling is lost to me. She was } you refuse to share the same shelter with me, 
too good, far too good, to think of suicide; and ' even for a night?' 

Providence would never suffer my poor lonely J There is nothing so difficult of belief to a man 
child to be led away to a dreary death upon that \ who is not a coxcomb as the simple fact that he is 
dismal river-shore. JTo, no; she fled away from ; beloved by a woman whom he does not love, and 
this place because she was too wretched here. — [ has never wooed by word or deed. But for this 
She went away to hide herself among those whom ; surely Edward Arundel must, in that sudden 
she could trust, until her husband came to claim < burst of tenderness, that one piteous appeal, have 
her. I will believe anything in the world except: discovered a clew to his cousin's secret, 
that she is lost tome. And I will not believe that, { He discovered nothing ; he guessed nothing. 
i will never believe that, until I look down at her I But he was touched by her tone, even in spite of 
corpse; until I lay my hand on her cold breast, ] his utter ignorance of its meaning, and he re- 
and feel that her true heart has ceased beating. I plied, in an altered manner, 
As I went out of this place four months ago to ; 'Certainly, Olivia, if you really wish it, I will 
look for her, I will go again now. My darling, j stay. Heaven knows I have no desire that you 
my darling, my innocent pet, my childish bride; ■ and I should be ill friends. I want your help ; 
I will go to the very end of the world in search < your pity, perhaps. I am quite willing to believe 
of you.' < that any cruel things you said to Mary arose from 

The widow ground her teeth as she listened to I an outbreak of temper. I can not think that you 
her kinsman's passionate words. Why .did he j could be base at heart. I will even attribute 

forever goad her to blacker wickedness by this 

parade of his love for Mary?. Why did he force j girl as to our marriage to the narrow prejudices 

her to remember every moment how much cause 
»he had to hate this pale-faced girl. 

leaning on his stick as he went. 
'You will sleep hereto-night, of course?' Olivia 

your disbelief of the statement made by my poor 

learned in a dismal country town. Let ui be 
friends, Olivia." 

Captain Arundel rose, and wall i a few paces, He held out his hand. His cousin laid her cold 

fingers in his open palm, and he shudddered as if 
he had come in contact with a corpse. There 

Marchmont said. was nothing very cordial in the salutation. The 

'Sleep here!' two hands seemed to drop asunder, lifeless and 

His tone expressed plainly enough that the inert ; as if to bear mute witBess that between. 

place was utterly abhorrent to him. j these two people there^was no possibility of sym- 

'Yes ; where else should you stay?' pathy or union. 

<1 meant to have stopped at the nearest inn.' But Captain Arundel accepted his cousin's hos- 

•The nearest inn is at Kemberling.' pitality. Indeed, he had need to do so ; for he 

'That would suit me well enough, ' the young | found that his valet had relied upon his master s 


stopping at the Towers, and had sent the carriage I 'Yes; she had brain-fever ; She recovered from 
back to Swampington. A tray with cold meat ; that, but she did not recover strength. Her low 
and wine was brought into the drawing-room for spirits alarmed me, and I considered it only 
the young soldier's refreshment. He drank a ; right— Mr. Marchmont suggested also— that a 
glass of Madeira, and made some pretense of medical man should be consulted.' 
eating a few mouthfuls, out of courtesy to Olivia; i 'And what did this man, this Mr. Weston, 
but he did this almost mechanically. He sat si- ' say?' 

lent and gloomy, brooding over the terrible shock ' 'Very little ; there was nothing the matter with 
that he had so newly received ; brooding over the ' Mary, he said. He gave her a little medicine, 
hidden things thaUhad happened in that dreary j but only in the desire of strengthening her ner- 
intcrval, during which he had been as powerless j vous system. He could give her no medicine that 
to defend his wife from trouble as a dead man. < would have any very good effect upon v er spirits 
Again and again the cruel thought returned to J while she chose to keep herself obstinately apart 
him, each time with a fresh agony — that if he / from every one.' 

had written to his mother, if he had told her the ; The young man's head sank upon his breast, 
story of his marriage, the-things which had hap- I The image of his desolate young wife arose be- 
pened could never have come to pass. Mary ; fore him ; the image of a pale, sorrowful girl, 
would have been sheltered and protected by a ; holding herself apart from her persecutors, aban- 
good and loving woman. This thought, this hor-i doned, lonely, despairing. Why had she remained 
libie self-reproach, was the bitterest thing the ; at Marchmont Towers ? Why had she ever con- 
young man had to bear. ' t sented to go there, when she had again and again 
'It is too great a punishment,' he thought ; 'I \ expressed such terror of h< r -tep-mother ? Why 
am too cruelly punished for having forgotten every '. had she not rather follovvt ' h r husband down to 
thing in my happiness with my darling.' * :' Devonshire, and thrown heioCifupon his relatives 
The widow sat in her low easy-cha'ir near the ;' for protection ? Was it like this loving girl to 
fire, with her eyes fixed upon the burning Coals ;, remain quietly here in Lincolnshire, when the 
the grate had been replenished, an'd the light of ' man >hc loved with such innocent devotion was 
the red blaze thone full upon Olivia Marchmont's '. lying between life and death away in the wesl? 
haggard face Edward Arundel, aroused for a ; -'She is such a child,' he thought — 'such, a child 
few moments out of his gloomy abstraction, was ; in her ignorance of the world. I must not reason 
sui't-fi-id' at. .ne chr.nfre which an interval of a ', about her as I would about another woman.' 

■ months h:id made in his cousin. The gloomy > And then a sudden flush of passionate emotion 
n.iddow Vviiich Ik had often seen on her face had ' rose to his face, as a new thought flashed into his 
become a fix^J e:-.pressinn : every line had deep- j mind. What if this helpless girl had been de- 
enei', as i»' by the wear and tear of ten years, '. tained by force at Marchmont Towers? 
rather th:«n by t!, ; , progress of a few months.'; 'Olivia,' he cried, 'whatever baseness this man 
Olivia Marchmont had grown old before her time. < Paul Marchmont may be capable of, you at least 
Nor was this the only change. There was a look, • must be superior to any deliberate sin. I have 
undefined and undetinable, in the large luminous \ all my life believed in you, and respected you as 
gray eyes, unnaturally luminous now, which filled < a good woman. Tell me the truth, then, for 
Edward Arundel with a vague sense of terrori j pity's sake. Nothing that you can tell me will 
a terror whi>.!i he would not — which he dared > fill up the dead blank that the horrible interval 
not— attempt to analyze. He remembered Mary's since my accident has made in my life. But you 
unreasoning fear of her step-mother, and he now can give me some help. A few words from you 
scarcely wondered at that fear. There was some- may clear away much of this darkness. How did 
thing aimost weird and unearthly in the aspect of you find my wife? How did you induce her to 
the woman sitting opposite to tiim by the broad come back to this place? J know that she had an 
hearth ; no ve-tige 01 color in her gloomy face, unreasonable dread of returning here.' 
a strange light burning in her eyes, and her black 'I found her through the agency cl Mr. March- 
draperies falling round her in straight lustreless moot,' Olivia answered, quietly. 'I had some 
folds. difficulty in inducing her to return here; but after 

'I fear you have been ill, Olivia,' the young hearing of your accident — ' 
man said, presently. How was the news of that broken to her?' 

Another sentiment had arisen in his breast side 'Unfortunately she saw a paper that had hap- 
by side with that vague terror — a fancy that per- pened to be left in her way.' 
haps there was some reason why his cousin should , 'By whom ?' 
be pitied. : 'By Mr. Marchmont.' 

' if es,' she answered, indifferently ; as if no sub- ! 'Where was this?' 
ject of which Captain Arundel could have; 'In -Hamp^liire.' 

spoken would have been of less concern to her— ■ 'Indeed ! then Paul Marchmont went with you 
'yes, I have been very ill.' i to Hampshire?' 

'I am sorry to hear it.' 'He did. He was of great service to me in 

Olivia looked up .at him and smiled. Her tmile ; this crisis. After seeing the paper my step- 
was the strangest he had ever seen upon a. wo- daughter was seized with brain-fever. She was 
man's face. ( unconscious when we brought her back to the 

'lam very sorry to hear it. What has been ; Towers. She was nursed by my old servant Bar- 
the matter with you ?' i bara, and had the highest medical care. I do not 

'Slow fever, Mr. Weston said.' ' think that.any thing more could have been done 

'Mr. Weston?' ] for her.' 

'Yes ; Mr. Marchmont's brother-in-law. He i 'No,' answered Edward Arurtdel, bitterly 'un- 
has succeeded to Mr. Dawnfield's practice at \ les« you could have loved her.' ' 

Kemberiing. He attended me, and he attended ; 'We can not force our affections,' the widow 
my step-daughter.' j said, in a hard voice. ' ' 

'My wife was ill, then ?' j Another voice in her breast seemed to whisper' 





Edward Arundel lay awake through the best 

'Why do you reproach me for not having loved ', spreading her transparent hands above the red 
this girl? If you had loved me, the whole world /light. , , ••■ 

would have been different.' '/ 'It isn't particular comfortable, after Danger- 

'Olivia Marchmont,' said Captain Arundel, 'by ', field,' the valet muttered, in a melancholy voice; 
your own avowal there has never been any affec- ', 'and all I 'ope, Mr. Edward, is, that the sheets 
tion for this orphan girl in your heart. It !s not ', are not damp. I've been a etirrin of the hre and 
my business to dwell upon the fact, as something { puttin' on fresh coals for the last hour. there 9 
almost unnatural under the peculiar circum- ) a bed for,me in the dressin'-room, within call, 
stances through which that helpless child was J- Captain Arundel scarcely heard what his ser- 
cast upon your protection. It is needless to try ', vant said to him. He was standing at the door 
to understand why you have hardened your heart >) of the spatious chamber, looking out into a long, 
against my poor wife. Enough that it is so. But { low-roofed" corridor, in which he had, just eu- 
1 may still believe that, whatever your feelings J countered Barbara, Mrs. Marchmont s connden- 
raay be toward your dead husband's daughter, itial attendant— the wooden-faced, lnscrutable- 
you would not be guilty of any deliberale act of Hooking woman who, according to Olivia, had 
treachery against her. I can afford to believe watched and ministered to his wife, 
this of you; but I can not believe it of Paul J 'Was that the tenderest face that looked down 
Marchmont. That man is my wife's natural { upon my darling as she lay on her sick-bed?' he 
enemy. If he has been here during my illness, J thought. 'I had almost as soon have had a ghoul 
he has been here to plot against her. When he \ to watch by my poor dear's pillow.' 
came here, he came to attempt her destruction. ', 

She stands between him and this estate. Long^ t a , 

ago, when I was a careless school-boy, my poor ( - 
friend John Marchmont told me that, if ever the \ 
day came upon which Mary's interests should be j 
opposed to the interests of her cousin, that man ? 
would be a dire and bitter enemy ; so much the > 

more terrible because in all appearance her \ ..___. 

r riend. The day came ; and I, to whom the or- ', part of that November night, listening to the 
phan girl had been left as a sacred legacy, was {ceaseless dripping of the rain upon the terrace, 
not by to. defend her. But I have risen from the S and thinking of Paul Marchmont. It was of this 
bed that many have thought a bed of death ; and \ man that he must demand an account of his wife. 
\ come to this place with one indomitable resolu- i Nothing that Olivia had told him had in any way 
tion paramount in my breast— the determination ^lessened this determination. ^ The little slipper 
co find my wife, and to bring condign punishment \ found by the water's edge ; the placard flapping 
upon the man who has done her wrong.' {on the moss-grown pillar at the entrance to the 

Captain Arundel spoke in a low voice ; but his I P alk ; the story of a possible suicide, or a more 
passion was not the more terrible because of the 5 probable accident-all these things were as no- 
suppression of those common outward evidences thing beside the young man s suspicion oi Paul 
by which fury ordinarily betrays itself. He re- Marchmont. He had pooh-poohed John s dread 
lapsed into thoughtful silence. J ° f hls kinsman as weak and unreasona^e ; and 

~,. . , s , ... ., ., , ,; now, with the same unreason, he was ready to 

Olivia made no answer -to anything ; that he :had C0IK femn this man, whom he had never seen, as 
said. _ She sat looking at him steadily with an traitor and a ]otter inst his young wife . 
admiring awe in her face How splendid he was, He j ios&[ / from side t0 si , !e all that night, 
this young hero, even in his sickness and feeble- weak > & fever j s h, with great drops of cold F ci- 
ness! How splendid, by reason of the grand iti m down his pa!e | aM ,» ffi uiw S 

courage the chivalrous devotion, that shone out faUi into a % t ful sleep, in whose, distorted 
of his blue eyes! J dreams Paul Marchmont was forever present, 

The clock struck eleven while the cousins sat ma now anot L e .. Ti n-e *ai no sense 

opposite to each other-only divided, physically, of fitness in these dreams ; for so^tin^s Edw— ' 
oy the width of the tapestried hearth-rug;, but, Ar undel and the artist we-e nao'ing toiet. c- 
oh how many weary miles asunder in spirit!- uh new ] y . s harpened dagger in their e a t ,r 
and Edward Arundel rose, startled from his sor-^ hand each thirsting for the otheiJ blood ; and 
rowful reverie > in the next moment they were trends, and had 

'If I were a strong man, he said, 'I would see been f riend]y _ as it se emed-for years. 
Paul J\: arch mont to-night. But I must wait till J The young man woke from one of these last 
to-morrow morning. At what time does he come * dreams * wit g wor d s of good-fellowship upon his 
to h« paintmg-room ? lips, to find the morning light gleaming through 

'At tight o clock when the mornings are bright; ^ narrow opell in g s in the damask window-cur- 
but later when the weather is dull.' tains> and M £ Morrison laying out his master's 

I At eight o'clock! I pray Heaven the'sun may dressing apparatus upon the carved oak toiJet- 
shine early to-morrow. I pray Heaven I may t a ble. 

not have to wait long before 1 find myself face to j Captain Arundel dressed himself as fast as he 
face with that man ! Good-night, Olivia !' j could, with the assistance of the valet, and then 

He took a candle from a table near the door, made'his way down the broad staircase, with the 
and lit it almost mechanically. He found Mr. help of his cane, upon which he had need to lean 
Morrison waiting for him, very sleepy and de- J pretty heavily, for he was as weak as a child. 
spondent, in a large bedchamber in wiiich Cap- 'You had better give me the brandy-flask, iwor- 
tain Arundel had never slept before— a dreary rison,' he said. 'I am going out belore Dreas- 
apartment decked out with the faded splendors fast. You may as well come with me, oy-me- 
of the past; a chamber in which the restless by ; for I doubt if I could walk as tar as 1 want 
sleeper might expect to see a phantom lady in a to go, without the nejp ot your aim. 
ghostly sack, cowering over the embers, and[ In the hall Captain Arundel found one of the 


; servant*. The western door was open, and the $ rather an eccentricity affected by artists, and 
man was standing on the threshold looking out ati permitted as the wild caprice of responsible 
the morning. The rain had ceased ; but the day (beings, not amenable to the laws that govern ra- 
did not yet promise to be very bright, for the sun tional and respectable people, 
gleamed like a ball of burnished copper through Edward Aiundel sharply scrutinized the face 
a pale November mist.' jand figure of the artist. He cast a rapid glance 

•Do you know if Mr. Paul Marchmont has gone I round the bare whitewashed walls of the shed, 
down to the boat-house?' Edward asked. (trying to read even in those bare walls some 

•Yes, Sir,' the man answered ; 'I met him just chance clew to the painter's character. But 
now in the quadrangle. He'd been having a cup there was not much to be gleaned from the de- 
of coffee with my mistress.' tails of that almost empty chamber. A dismal, 

: Edward started. They were friends, then, black-looking iron stove, with a crooked chim- 
Paul Marchmont and Olivia ! — friends, but surely j ney , stood in one corner. A great easer occupied 
not allies! Whatever villainy this man might be j the centre of the room. A sheet of tin, nailed 
capable of committing, Olivia must at least be j upon a wooden shutter, swung backward' ano for- 
guiltiess of any deliberate' treachery. j ward agains.t the northern window, blown to and 

Captain Arundel took his 'servant's arm and ; fro by the damp wind that crept in through the 
walked cut Lito the quadrangle, and from the j crevices in the frame-work of 'the roughly-fash- 
quadrangls fr the low-lying woody swamp, where • ioned casement. A heap of canvases were piled 
1':°. stunted .leci looked grim and wierd-like inJagainst the walls, and here and there a half- 
ti^.ir leaSess ugliness. Weak as the young man 'finished picture — a lurid Tuneresque landscape; 
was, he v ilked rapidly across the sloppy ground, /a black stormy sky ; a rocky mountain-pass, dyed 
which hau be-.'n almo;t flooded by the continual 'blood-red by the setting sun — was propped up 
rains. Ho was borne up by his tierce desire to 'against the whitewashed background. Scattered 
be iace to face with Paul Marchmont. The 1 'scraps of water-color, crayon, old engravings, 
savage energy of his mind was stronger than any /sketches torn and tumbled, bits, of rock-work and 
physical debility. He dismissed Mr. Morrison as 'foliage, lay littered about the floor; and onu 
soon as he was within sight of the boat-house, 'paint-stained deal-table of the roughest and plain- 
and went on alone, leaning on his stick, and J est fashion were gathered the color-tubes and 
pausing how and then to draw breath, angry with / pallets, the brushes and sponges and dirty cloths, 
himself for his weakness. ! , the greasy and sticky tin cans, which form the 

The' boat-house, and the pavilion above it, had J paraphernalia of an artist. Opposite the north- 
been patched up by some country workmen. A;'ern window was the moss-grown stone staircase 
handful of plaster here and there, a little new / leading up to the pavilion over the boat-house, 
brick-work, and a mended window-frame, bore '■ Mr. Marchmont had built his painting-room 
witness of this. The ponderous old-fashioned 'against the side of the' pavilion, in such a manner 
wooden-shutters had been repaired, and a good 'as to shut in the staircase .and doorway which 
deal of the work which had been begun in John /formed the only entrance to it. His excuse for 
Marchmont 's lifetime had now, in a certain rough I the awkwardness of this piece of architecture 
manner, been completed. The place which had; was the impossibility of otherwise getting tl:« 
hitherto appeared likely to fall into utter decay ;' all-desirable northern light for the illumination 
had been rendered weather-tight and habitable : i of his rough studio. 

the black smoke creeping slowly upward from the >, This was the chamber in which Edward Arun- 
ivy-covered chimney, gave evidence of occupa- / del found the man from whom he came to de~ 
tion. Beyond this, a large wooden shed, with a'mand an account of his wife's disappearance, 
wide window fronting the north, had been ' The artist was evidently quite prepared to receive 
erected close against the boat-house. This rough ' his visitor. He made no pretense of being taken 
shed Edward Arundel at once understood to be ' off his guard, as a meaner pretender might have 
the painting-room which the artist had built for 'done. One of Paul Marchmont's theories was, 
himself. " ' that as it is only a fool who would use brass 

He paused a moment outside the door of this / where he could as easily employ gold, so it is 
shed. A man's voice — a tenor voice, rather thin ; only a fool that tells a lie when he can conve- 
and metallic in quality — was singing a scrap ' niently tell the truth. 

of Rossini upon the other side of the frail wood- 'i 'Captain Arundel, I believe?', he said, pushing 
work. ( a chair forward for his visitor. 'I am sorry to 

Edward Arundel knocked with the handle of /say I recognize you by your appearance of ill 
his stick upon the door. The voice left off sing- /health. Mrs. Marchmont told me you wanted to 
ing to say 'Come in.' 'see me. Does my meerschaum annoy you ? I'll 

The soldier opened the door, crossed the /put it out if it does. No? Them, if you'll allow 
threshold, and stood face to face with Paul) me, I'll go on smoking. Some people say to- 
Marchmontin the bare wooden shed. The painter /bacco-smoke gives a tone to one's pictures. If 
had.dressed himself for his work. His coat and /so, mine ought to be Rembrandt's in depth of 
waistcoat lay upon a chair near the door. He color.' 

had put on a canvas jacket, and had drawn a/ Edward Arundel dropped into the chair that 
loose pair of linen trowsers over those which be- had been offered to him. If he could by any 
longed to his usual costume. So far as this paint- / possibility have rejected even this amount of hos- 
besmeared coat and trowsers went, nothing could j pitality from Paul Marchmont he would have 
have been more slovenly than Paul Marchmont's (done so; but be was a great deal too weak to 
appearance ; but some tinge of foppery exhibited j stand, and he knewthat his interview with the 
itself in the black velvet smoking-cap, which con- artist must be a long one. 

trasted with and set off the silvery whiteness of 'Mr. Marchmont,' he said, < if my cousin 
his hair, as well as in the delicate curve of his ! Olivia told you that, you might expect to see mp 
amber mustache. A mustache was not a very > here to-day, she most likely told you a ereat HmI 
common adornment in the year 1848. It was > more. Did she tell you that I look to you to ac 


count to mo for the disappearance of my Paul Marchmont's seemed the personification of i 
wife?' ' innocence. Not ans;ry innocence, indignant that : 

Paul Marchmont shrugged his shoulders, as ! its purity should have been Suspected; but the ■ 
who should say, ' This young man is an invalid. ■ matter-of-fact, commonplace innocence of a man 
I must not suffer myself to be aggravated by his ; of the world, who is a great deal too clever to ! 
absurdity.' Then taking. his meerschaum from < play any hazardous and villainous game, 
his lips, he set it down, and seated himself at a ' ' You can perhaps answer me this question, My. 
few paces from Edward Arundel, on the lowest i Marchmont,' said Edward Arundel. 'Why was 
of the moss-grown steps leading up to the 'pa- : my wife doubted when she told the story of her 
vilion. ! marriage? ' 

'My dear Captain Arundel,' he said, very: The artist smiled, and risingfrom his seat upon 
gravely, • your cousin did repeat to me a great ! the stone step, took a pocket-book from one of 
deal of last night's conversation. She told me j the pockets of the coat that he had been wearing, 
that you had spoken of me with a degree of vio- \ ' I can answer that question,' he said, selecting 
lence, natural enough, perhaps, to a hot-tempered > a paper from among others in the pocket-book.— 
young soldier, but in no manner justified byi our ' 'This will answer it.' 

relations. When you call upon me to account ; He handed Edward Arundel the paper, which 
for the disappearance, cf Mary Marchmont, you '; was a letter folded lengthways, and indorsed, 
act about as rationally as if you declared "me i ' From Mrs. Arundel, August 31st.' Within this 
answerable for the pulmonary complaint that car- < letter was another paper, indorsed, ' Copy of let- 
ried away her father. If, on the other hand, you ;■ ter to Mrs. Arundel, August 28th. ' 
call upon me to assist you in the endeavor to ' You had better read the copy first,' Mr. 
fathom the mystery other disappearance, you ' Marchmont said, as Edward looked doubtfully at 
will find me ready and willing to aid you to the , the inner paper. 

very uttermost. It is to my interest as much as ' The copy was very brief, and ran thus: 
to yours that this mystery should be cleared up.' ' 

'And in the mean time you take possession of ' Marchmont Towers, August 28, 1848. 

thrs estate?' 'Madam, — I have been given to understand 

' No, Captain Arundel. The law would allow ' that your son, Captain Arundel, within a fort- 
me to do so; but I decline to touch one farthing night of his sad accident, contracted a secret 
of the revenue which this estate yields, or to com- ; marriage with a young lady whosr. name I, for 
mit one act of ownership, until the mystery of ; several reasons, prefer to withhold. If you can 
Mary Marchmont's disappearance, or of her '. oblige me by informing me whether there is any 
death, is cleared up.' ' foundation for this statement you will confer a 

'The mystery of her death!' said Edward ; very great favor upon 
•Arundel; ' you believe, then, that she is dead ?' ' ' Your obedient servant, 

'I anticipate nothing; I think nothing,' an- J ' Paul Marchmont.' 

swered the artist; ' I only wait. The mysteries ' 

of life are so many and so incomprehensible — ; The answer to this letter, in the hand of Ed- 
iie stories, which are every day to be read by J-ward Arundel's mother, was ei.ialiy brief: 
any man who takes the trouble to look through \ 

a newspaper, are so strange, and savor so much .' ' Dangerfield Park, „lug>'d 31, 1 S4^. 

of the improbabilities of a novel-writer's first 1 'Sir, — Jn reply to your inquiry, i beg to staie 
wild fiction — that I am ready to believe every (that there can be no foundation vyhatevcr for the 
thing and anything. Mary Marchmont struck report to which you allude. My son is too honor- 
me, fr-im the first moment in which I saw her, as f able to contract a secret marriage; and although 
sadly deficient in mental power. Nothing she '» his present unhappy state renders it impossible 
could do would astonish me. She may be hiding '; for me to receive the assurance from his own lips, 
herself away from us, prompted only by some ; my confidence in his high principles justifies me 
eccentric fancy of ht r own. She may have fal- , in contradicting any such report as that which 
len into the power of resigning people. She may ' forms the subject of your letter, 
have purposely placed her slipper by the water- ■ 'I am, Sir, yours obediently, 

side in order to give the idea of an accident or a ' Letitia Arundel.' 

suicide, or she may have dropped it there by ' 

chance and walked barefoot to the nearest rail- The soldier stood, mute and confounded, with 
way station. She acted unreasonably before ' his mother's letter in his hand. It seemed as if 
when she ran away from Marchmont Towers ; ', every creature had been against the helpless girl 
she may have acted unreasonably again.' whom he had made his wife. Every hand had 

' You do not think, then, that she is dead ? ' ■' been lifted to drive her from the house that was 
' [ hesitate to form any opinion ; I positively ; her own; to drive, her out upon the world, of 
decline t , express one. ' which she was ignorant, a wanderer and an out- 

Edward Arundel gnawed savagely at the,ends cast; perhaps to drive her to a cruel death, 
of his mustache. This man's cool imperturba- 'You can scarcely wonder if the receipt of 
bility, which had none of the studied smoothness that letter confirmed me in my previous belief 
of hypocrisy, but which seemed rather the plain that Mary Marchmont's story of a marriage arose 
candor of a thorough man of the world, who had out of the weakness of a brain never too strong, 
no wish to pretend to any sentiment he did not ; and at that time very much enfeebled by the 
feel, baffled and infuriated the passionate young ; effect of a fever.' 

soldier. Was it possible that this man, who met J Edward Arundel was silent. He crushed his 
him with such cool self assertion, who in no man- mother's letter in his hand. Even his mother — 
ner avoided any discussion of Mary Marchmont's ; even his mother — that tender and compassionate 
disappearance — was it possible that he could have ; woman, whose protection he had so freely prom- 
had any treacherous and guilty part jn that ca- ; ised, ten years before, in the lobby of Drury Lane, 
Jamity? Olivia's manner looked like guilt ; but ' to John Marchmont's motherless child— even 


she, by some hideous fatality, had helped to / the blank windows that stared, down at him from 
king grief and shame upon the lonely girl. All 'i the discolored walls. 

this story of his young wife's disappearance '/ 'Oh, if they could speak!' he exclaimed, al- 
seemed enveloped in a wretched obscurity, '; most beside himself in his perplexity and des- 
through whose thick darkness he could not pen- operation; 'if they could speak.! If those cruel 
etraie. He felt himself encompassed by a web /walls could speak, and tell me what my darling 
cf mystery athwart which it was impossible for! suffered within their shadow! If they could 
him to cut his way to the truth. He asked ques- hell me why she despaired, and ran away to hide 
tion after question, and received answers which J herself 'from her husband and protector! Iflhey 
seemed freely given; but the story remained as / could speak!' 

dark as ever. What did it all mean? What ; He ground his teeth in a passion of sorrowful 
was the clew to the mystery? Was this man,, rage. 

Paul Marchmont— busy among his unfinished' 'I should gain as much by questioning yonder 
pictures, and bearing in his every action, in his '/ stone-wall as by talking to my cousin, 01ivia : 
every word, the stamp of an easy-going, free- > Marchmont,' he thought, presently. 'Why is' 
spoken soldier of fortune— likely to have been Jthat woman so venomous a creature in her hatred 
guilty of any dark and subtle villainy against of my innocent wife ? Why is it that, whether I 
the missing girl? He had disbelieved in the \ threaten or whether I appeal, I can gain nothing 
marriage; but he had had some reason for his ', from her — nothing? She baffles me as completely 
doubt of a fact that could not very well be wel- \ by her measured answers, which seem to reply to 
come to him. : my questions, and which yet tell me nothing, as 

The young man rose frpm his chair, and stood ; if she were a brazen image set up by the dark 
irresolute, brooding over these things. / ignorance of a heathen people, and dumb in the 

'Come, Captain Arundel,' cried Paul March- absence of an impostor-priest. She baffles me, 
mont, heartily, 'believe me, though I have -not ; question her 'how 1 will. And Paul Marchmont, 
much superfluous sentimentality left in my com-; again— what have I learned from him? Am I a 
position after a pretty Ibng eneounter with the ; fool, that people can prevaricate and lie to me 
world, still I can truly sympathize with your re.-\ like this? Has my brain no sense, and my arm 
gret for this poor silly child. I hope, for your sake, \ no strength, that I can not wring the truth from' 
that she still lives, and is hiding herself out of some 'the false throats of these wretches ?' 
persistent folly. Perhaps, now you are able to J The young man gnashed his teeth again in the 
act in the business, there may be a better chance ' violence of his rage. 

of finding her. I am old enough to be -your fa-/ Yes, it was like a dream; it was like nothing 
ther, and am ready to give you the help of any / but a dream, Iti dreams he had often felt this 
knowledge of the world which I may have gath- / terrible sense of impotence wrestling with a mad 
ered in the experience of a lifetime. Will you / desire to achieve something or other. But never 
accept my help?' ' before in his waking hours had the young soldier 

Edward Arundel paused for a moment with ' experienced such a sensation, 
his head still bent, and his eyes fixed upon the/ He stopped, irresolute, almost bewildered, look- 
ground. Then suddenly lifting his head, he > ing back at the boat-house, a black spot far away 
looked full in the artist's face as he answerd him. /down by the sedgy brink of the slow river, and 
'No!' he cried. 'Your offer may be made '/then again turning his face toward the monoto- 
in all good faith, and if so, I thank you for it ; / nous lines of windows in the eastern frontage-of 
but no one loves this missing girl as I love her ; /Marchmont Towers. 

no one has so good a right as I have to protect/ ' I let that man play with me to-day,' he thought; 
and shelter her. I will look for my wife, alone, ' 'but our reckoning is to come. We have not 
unaided; except by such help as 1 pray that God / done with each other yet. ' 

may give me.' / He walked on to the low archway leading into 

/the quadrangle. 
'/ The room which had been John Marchmont's 

-♦,.». . ■ /study, and which his widow had been wont to 

'i occupy since his death, looked into this quad- 
wrangle. Edward Arundel saw his cousin's dark 
CHAPTER XXIII. < head bending over a book, or a desk perhaps, be- 

IN THE DARK j hind thf5 windoW - 

j ' Let her beware of me, if she has done any 
Edward Arundel walked slowly back to the j wrong to my wife!' he'thought. 'To which of 
Towers, shaken in body, perplexed in mind, baf-j these people am I to look for an account of my 
fled, disappointed, and most miserable; the young poor lost girl? To which of these two am I to 
husband, whose married life had been shut within look? Heaven guide me to find the guilty one- 
ihe compass of a brief honey-moon, went back and Heaven have mercy -upon that wretched' 
to that dark and gloomy mansion within whose j creature when the hour of reckoning comes for 
encircling walls Mary had pined and despaired, j I will have none.' 

'Why did she stop here?' he thought; 'why; Olivia Marchmont, looking through the win- 
didn't she come to me? I thought her first im- dow, saw her kinsman's face while this thought 
pulse would have brought her to me. I thought was in his mind. The expression which she saw 
my poor childish love would have^ set out on foot there was so terrible, so merciless, so sublime in 
to seek her husband, if need were.' its grand and vengeful beauty, that her own face 

He groped his way feebly and wearily amidst blanched even to a paler hue than that which 
the leafless wood, and through the rotting vege- j had lately become habitual to it. 
tation decaying in oozy slime beneath the black j 'Am I afraid of him?' she thought as shi» 
shelter of the naked trees. He groped his way j pressed her forehead against the cold glass and 
toward the dismal eastern front of the great stone ! by a physical effort restrained the eonvuhivp 
dwelling-house, his face always turned toward J trembling that had suddenly shaken her frame 



'Am I afraid of him? No! what injury can he 
inflict upon me worse than that which he has 
done me from the very first? If he could drag 
me to a scaffold, and deliver me with his own 
hands into the grasp of the hangman, he would 
do me no deeper wrong than he has done me 
from the hour of my earliest remembrance of 
him. He could inflict no new pangs, no sharper 
torture, than I have been accustomed to suffer at 
his hands. He does not love me. He has never 
loved me. He never will, love me. That is my 
wrong; and it is for that 1 take my revenge!' 

She lifted her head, which had rested in a 
sullen attitude against the glass, and looked at 
the soldier's figure slowly advancing toward the 
western side of the house. 

Then, with a smile — the same horrible smile 
which Edward Arundel had seen light upherface 
on the previous night — she muttered between her 
set teeth, 

'Shall I be sorry because this vengeance has 
fallen across my pathway? Shall I repent, and 
try to undo what I have done? Shall I thrust 
myself between others and Mr. Edward Arundel ? 
Shall I make myself the ally and champion of 
this gallant soldier, who seldom speaks to me ex- 
cept to insult and upbraid me? Shall J take jus- 
tice into my hands, and interfere for my kins- 
man's benefit? No; he has chosen to threaten 
me ; he has chosen to believe vile things of me. 
From the first his indifference has been next kin 
to insolence. Let him take care of himself.' 

Edward Arundel took no heed of the gray eyes 
that watched him with such a vengeful light in 
their fixed gaze. He was still thinking of his 
missing wife, still feeling, to a degree that was 
intolerably painful, that miserable dream-like 
sense of utter helplessness and prostration. 

'What am I to do?' he thought. 'Shall I be 
forever going backward and forward between my 
Cousin Olivia and Paul Marchmont? forever 
questioning them, first one and then the other, and 
never getting any nearer to the truth ?' 

He asked himself this question, because the 
extreme anguish, tne intense anxiety, which he 
had endured, seemed to have magnified the 
smallest events, and to have multiplied a hun- 
dredfold the lapse of time. It seemed as if he 
had already spent half a lifetime in his search 
after John Marchmont's lost daughter. 

'Oh my friend, my friend !' he thought, as some 
faint link of association, some memory thrust 
upon him by the aspect of the placein which he 
was, brought back the simple-minde'd tutor who 
had taught him mathematics eighteen years be- 
fore — 'my poor friend, if this girl had not been 
my love and my wife, surely the memory of your 
trust in me would be enough to make me a des- 
perate and merciless avenger of her wrongs.' 

He went into the hall, and from the hall to 
the tenantless western drawing-room — a dreary 
chamber, with its grim and faded splendor, its 
stiff, old-fashioned furniture ; a chamber which, 
unadorned by the presence of youth and inno- 
cence, had the aspect of belonging to a day that 
was gone and people that were dead. So might 
have looked one of those sealed-up chambers in 
the buried cities of Italy, when the doors were 
opened, and eager living eyes first looked in upon 
the habitations of the dead. 

Edward Arundel walked up and down the 
empty drawing-room. There were the ivory 
chessmen that he had brought from India, under 
a glass shade on an inlaid table in a window. 

' t How often he and Mary had played together in 
J that very window! and how she had always lost 
,'her pawns, and left bishops and knights unde- 
J fended, while trying to achieve impossible con-. 
j quests with her queen ! The young man paced 
^slowly backward and forward across the old- 
J fashioned bordered carpet, trying to think what 
< he should do. He must form some plan of action 
j in his own mind, he thought. There was foul 
work somewhere, he most implicitly believed ; 
and it was for him to discover the motive of the 
treachery and the person of the traitor. 
Paul Marchmont! Paul Marchmont! 
His mind always traveled back to this point. 
Paul Marchmont was Mary's natural enemy. 
Paul Marchmont was therefore surely the mar. 
to be suspected, the man to be found out and de- 

And yet, if there was any truth in appear- 
ances, it was Olivia who was most inimical to the 
missing girl ; it was Olivia whom Mary had 
feared ; it was Olivia who had driven John 
Marchmont's orphan child from her home once, 
and who might, by the same power to tj'rannize 
and torture a weak and yielding nature, have so 
banished her again. 

Or these two, Paul and Olivia, might both hate 
the defenseless girl, and might have between 
them plotted a wrong against her. 

'Who will tell me the truth about my lost dar- 
ling?' cried Edward Arundel. 'Who will help 
me to look for my missing love ?' 

His lost darling ; his missing love. It was thus 
that the young man spoke of his wife. That dark 
thought which had been suggested to him by the 
words of Olivia, by the mute evidence of the lit- 
tle bronze slipper picked up near the river-brink, 
had never taken root, or held even a temporary 
place in his breast. He would not — nay, more, 
he could not — think that his wife was dead. In 
all his confused and miserable dreams that dreary 
November night, no dream had ever shown him 
that. No image of death had mingled itsjlf with 
the distorted shadows that had tormented his 
sleep. No still white face had looked up at him 
through a veil of murky waters. No moaning 
sob of a rushing stream had mixed its dismal 
sound with the many voices of his slumbers. No; 
he feared all manner of unknown sorrows : he 
looked vaguely forward to a sea of difficulty, to 
be waded across in blindness and bewilderment 
before he could clasp his rescued wife in his 
arms ; hut he never thought that she was dead. 

Presently the idea came to him that it was out- 
side Marchmont Towers, — away beyond the walls 
of this grim, enchanted castle, where evil spirits 
seemed to hold possession— that he should seek 
for the clew to his wife's hiding-place. 

'There is Hester, that girl who was fond of 
Mary,' he thought. 'She may be able to tell me 
something, perhaps. I will go to her.' 

He went out into the hall to look for his ser- 
vant, the faithful Morrison, who had been eating 
a very substantial breakfast with the domestics 
of the Towers — 'the sauce to meat' being a pro- 
longed discussion of the facts connected with 
Mary Marchmont's disappearance and her rela- 
tions with Edward Arundel — and who came, ra- 
diant and greasy from the enjoyment of hot but- 
tered cakes and Lincolnshire bacon, at the sound 
of his master's voice. 

'I want you to get me some vehicle, and a lad 
who will drive me a few miles, Morrison,' the 


young soldier said ; 'or you can drive me your- 
self, perhaps?' 

'Certainly, Master Edward ; I have driven your 
Pa often, when we was travelin' together. I'll 
go and see if there's a phee-aton or a chay that 
will suit you, Sir ; something that goes easy on 
its springs.' 

'Get any thing,' muttered Captain Arundel, 'so 
long as you can get it without loss of time.' 

All fuss and anxiety upon the subject of bis 
health worried the young man. He felt his head 
dizzied with weakness and excitement; his arm — 
that muscular right arm which had done him 
good service two years before in an encounter 
with a tigress — as weak as the jewel-bound wrist 
of a delicate woman. But he chafed against any 
thing like consideration of his weakness ; he re- 
belled against anything that seemed likely to 
hinder him in that one object upon which all the 
powers of his mind were bent. 

Mr. Morrison went away with some show of 
briskness, but dropped into a very leisurely pace 
as soon as he was fairly out of his master's sight. 
He went straight to the stables, where he had a 
pleasant gossip with the grooms and hangers-on, 
and amused himself further by inspecting every 
bit of horse-flesh in the Marchmont stables, prior 
to selecting a quiet gray gob which he felt him- 
self capable of driving, and^n old-fashioned gig, 
with a yellow body and biack-and-yellow wheels, 
bearing a strong resemblance to a monstrous 
wooden wasp. 

While the faithful attendant to whom iVirs. 
Arundel had delegated the care of her son was 
thus employed, the soldier stood in the stone hall, 
looking out at the dreary wintry landscape, and 
pining to hurry away across the dismal swamps 
to the village in which he hoped to^ hear tidings 
of her he sought. He* was lounging in a deep 
oaken window-seat, looking hopelessly at that 
barren prospect, that monotonous expanse of flat 
morass and leaden sky, when he heard a footstep 
behind him, and, turning round, saw Olivia's 
confidential servant, Barbara Simmons; the wo- 
man who had watched by his wife's sick-bed — the 
woman whom he had compared to a ghoul. 

She was walking slowly across the hall toward 
Olivia's room, whither a bell had just summoned 
her. Mrs. Marchmont had lately grown fretful 
and capricious, and did not care to be waited 
upon by any one except this woman, who had 
known her from her childhood, and was no stran- 
ger to her darkest moods. 

Edward Arundel had determined to appeal to 
every living creature who was likely to know 
any thing of his wife's disappearance, and he 
snatched the first opportunity of questioning this 

'Stop, Mrs. Simmons,' he said, moving away 
from the window; 'I want to speak to you; I want 
to talk to you about my wife.' 

The woman turned to him with a blank face, 
whose expressionless stare might mean either 
genuine surprise, or an obstinate determination 
not to understand anything that might be said to 

, 'Your wife, Captain Arundel,' she said, in 
cold measured tones, but with an accent of as- 

'Yes, my wife. Mary Marchmont, my law- 
fully-wedded wifa. Look here, woman,' ciied 
Edward Arundel, 'if you can not accept the word 
of a soldier, and an honorable man, you can per- 
haps believe the evidence of your eyes.' 

He took a morocco memorandum-book from 
his breast-pocket. It was full of letters, cards, 
bank-notes, and miscellaneous scraps of paper, 
carelessly stuffed into it, and among them Cap- 
tain Arundel found the certificate of his mar- 
riage, which he had put away at random upon his 
wedding morning, and which had lain unheeded 
in his pocket-book ever since. 

'Look here !' he cried, spreading the document 
before the waiting-woman's eyes, and pointing, 
with a shaking hand, to the lines. 'You believe 
that, I suppose ?' 

'Oh yes, Sir,' Barbara Simmons answered, 
after deliberately reading the certificate. 'I 
have no reason. to disbelieve it; no wish to disbe- 
lieve it.' 

'No, I suppose not,' muttered Edward Arun- 
del,' unless you too are leagued with Paul March- 

The woman did not flinch at this hinted accu- 
sation, but answered the young man in that slow 
and emotionless manner which no change of cir- 
cumstance seetned to have power to alter. 

'I am leagued with no one, Sir,' she said, 
coldly. 'I serve no one except my mistress, Miss 
Olivia — I mean Mrs. Marchmont.-' 

The study-bell rang for the second time while 
she was speaking. 

'I must go to my mistress now", Sir,' she said. 
'You heard her ringing for me. ' 

'Go, then, and let me see you as you come 
back. I tell you I must and will see you and 
speak to you. Every body in this house tries to 
avoid me. It seems as if I was not to get a 
straight answer from any one of you. But I will 
know all that is to be known about my lost wife. 
Do you hear, woman ? I will know !' 

'I will come back to you directly, Sir, 'Barbara 
Simmons answered, quietly. 

The leaden calmness of this woman's manner 
irritated Edward Arundel beyond all power of 
expression. Before his Cousin Olivia's gloomy 
coldness he had been flung back upon himself as 
before an iceberg; but every now and then some 
sudden glow of fiery emotion had shot up amidst 
\he frigid mass, lurid and blazing, and that ice- 
berg had for a moment, at least, been transformed 
into an angry and passionate woman, who might 
in that moment of fierce; emotion betray the dark 
secrets of her soul. But this woman's manner 
presented a passive barrier, athwart which the 
young soldier was as powerless to penetrate as 
he would have been to walk through a block of 
solid stone. 

Olivia was like aome black and stony castle, 
whose barred windows bade defiance to the be- 
sieger, but behind whose narrow casements tran- 
sient flashes of light gleamed fitfully upon the 
watchers without, hitting at the mysteries that 
were hidden within the citadel. 

Barbara Simmons resembled a black itone- 
wall, grimly confronting the eager traveler, and 
giving no indication of the unknown country on 
the other side. 

* She came back almost immediately, after being 
only a few moments in Olivia's room— certainly 
not long enough to consult with her mistress as 
to what she was to say or to leave unsaid— and 
presented herself before Captain Arundel 
„! If y°" h L ave Pay questions to ask, Sir,' about 
Miss Marchmont, about your wife, 1 shall be 
happy to answer them,' she said. 

•1 have a hundred question* to ask,' exclaimed 
the young man; 'but first answer me thiidne 


plainly and truthfully : Where do you think my J by his passionate agitation, suddenly eloquent by 
wife has gone? What do you think has become < reason of the intensity of his feeling, a change- 
of her?' 'came over Barbara's face. There was no very 

The woman was silent for a few moments, and < palpable evidence of emotion in that stolid coun- 
then answered very gravely, J tenance; but across the wooden blankness of the 

'I would rather not say what I think, Sir.' ( woman's face flitted a transient shadow, which 

'Why not?' / ,; vas like the shadow of fear. 

'Because I might say that which would make j 'I tried to. do my duty to Miss Marehmont as 
you unhappy.' J well as to my mistress,' she said. 'I waited on 

'Can any thingjbe more miserable to me than •; Her faithfully while she was ill. I sat up with 
the prevarication which J meet with on every side? V her six nights running. I didn't take my clothes 
cried Edward Arundel. 'If you or any one else ' oh" for a week. There are folks in the house who 
will be straightforward with me — remembering <J can tell you as much.' 

that f come to this place like a man who has risen £ 'God knows I am grateful to you, and will re'- 
fro'tn the grave, depending wholly on the word of ■' ward you for any pity you may have shown my 
others for the knowledge of that which is more < poor darling,' the young man answered, in a more 
vital to me than any thing upon this earth — that ■: subdued tone; 'only, if you pity me, and wish to 
person will be the best friend I have found since '<■ help me, speak out, and speak plainly. What do 
I rose from my sick-bed to come hither. You can < you think has become of my lost girl ?' 
have no motive— if you are not in Paul March- > 'I can not tell you, Sir. As God looks down 
rnont's pay — for being cruel to my poor girl.; upon me and judges me, I declare to you that I 
Tell me the truth, then; speak, and speak fear- > know no more than you know. But I think—' 
tessly.' I; \You think what?' 

'I have no reason to fear, Sir,' answered Bar-';; 'That you will never see Miss Marehmont 
bara Simmons, lifting her faded eyes to the; again.' 

young man's eager face, with a gaze that seemed ' ( Edward Arundel started as violently as if of all 
to say, 'I have done no wrong, and I do not i sentences this was the last he had expected to 
shrink from justifying myself.' '1 have no rea- j hear pronounced. His sanguine temperament, 
son to fear, Sir; I was piously brought up, and ', fresh in its vigorous and untainted youth, could 
have done my best always to do my duty in the \ not grasp the thought of despair. He caufd be 

state of life in which Providence has been pleased 
to place me. I have not had a particularly happy 
life, Sir; for thirty years ago 1 lost all that made 
me happy, in them that loved me, and had a 
claim to love me. I have attached myself to my 
mistress; but it isn't for me to expect a lady like 
her would stoop to make me more to her or 
nearer to her than I have a right to be as a 

There was no accent- of hypocrisy or cant in 
anyone of these deliberately spoken words. It 

mad witn passionate anger against the obstacles 
that separated him from his wife, but he could 
not believe those obstacles to be insurmountable. 
He could not doubt the power of his own devo- 
tion and courage to bring him back his lost Jove. 
'Never — see her — again !' 
He repeated these words as if they had be- 
longed to a strange language, and ho were trying 
to make out their meaning. 

'You think,' he gasped hoarsely, afte* a long 
pause — 'you think — that — she is — dead?' 
seemed as if in this speech the woman had told ) '1 think that she went out of this house in a 
the history of her life; a brief, unvarnished his- J desperate state of mind. She was seen — not by 
tory of a barren life, out of which all love and ; me, for I should have thought it my duty to stop 
sunlight had been early swept away, leaving be- j her if I had seen her so — she was seen by one of 
hind a desolate blank that was not destined to be ' f the servants crying and sobbing awfully as she 
filled up by any affection from the young mis- ( went away upon that last afternoon.' 
tress so long and patiently served. < 'And she was never seen again ?' 

'I am faithful tomy mistress, Sir,' Barbara \ 'Never by me.' 
Simmons added, presently, 'and i try my best to j 'And — you — you think she went out of this 
do my duty to her. I owe no duty to any one < t house with the intention of — of — destroying her- 
else.' J self?' 

'You owe a duty to humanity,' answered Ed- ', The words died away in a hoarse whisper, and 
ward Arundel. 'Woman, do you'think duty is a j it was by the motion of his white lips that Bar- 
thing to be measured by line and rule? Christ; bara Simmons perceived what the young man 
came to save the lost sheep of the children of Is- \ meant, 
rael; but was He less pitiful to the Canaanitish > : '1 do, Sir.' 

woman when 'she carried her sorrows to His feet? ', 'Have you any — particular Reason for thinking 
You and your mistress have made hard precepts jlso?' 

for yourselves, and have tried to live by them , 'No reason beyond what I have told you, Sir.' 
You try to circumscribe the area of your Chris- ! Edward Arundel bent his head, and walked 
tian charity, and to do good within given limits, f away to hide his blanched' face. He tried in- 
The traveler who fell among thieves would have istinctively to conceal his mental suffering, as- he 
died of his wounds for any help he might have (had sometimes hidden physital torture in an In- 
had from you if he had lain beyond your radios, dian hospital, prompted by the involuntary im- 
Have you yet to iearn that Christianity is cosmo- 1 pulse of a brave man. But though the woman's 
politan, illimitable, inexhaustible, subject to no j words had come upon him like a thunder-bolt, he 
laws of time or space? The duty you owe to i had no belief in the opinion they expressed. No; 
your mistress is a duty that she buys and pays j his young spirit wrestled against and rejected the" 
for -a matter of sordid barter, to be settled when (awful concision. Other people might think 
you take your wages; the duty you owe to every what they chose; kut he knew better thafrthey. 
miserable creature in your pathway is a sacred His wife was not dead. His life had been so 
debt, to be accounted for to God.' smooth,*o happy, so pre-sperous, so unclouded 

As the young soldier spoke thus, carried away and Buccessful, that it was scarcely strange he 



shou'd be skeptical of calamity — that his mind 
should not be incapable of grasping the idea of a 
cntastrophe so temhie as Mary's suicide. 

'She was intrusted to me by her father,' he 
thought. 'ShH. gave her faith to me before God V 
altar. She can not have perished bod) and soul: 
she can not have goa* down to destruction for 
want of my arm outstretched to save her. God 
is too good to permit such misery ' ' 

The young soldier's piety -was of the simplest 
and most unquestioning order, and invdlved an 
implicit belief that a right cause must always bt 
ultimately victorious. With the same blind' faith 
in which he had often muttered a hurried prayer 
before plunging in amidst the mad havoe of an In- 
dian battle-field, confident that the justice of 
Heaven would never permit heathenish Afghans 
to triutnph over Christian British gentlemen, he 
now believed that, in the darkest hour of Mary 
Marchmont's life, God's arm had held her back 
frpm the dread horror-^the, .unatonable offense — 
of self-destruction. , 

'1 thank you for having spoken frankly to me,' 
,he said to Barbara Simmons; 'I believe that you 
have spoken in good faith. But 1 do not- think 
my darling is forever lost to me. T »nticipate 
trouble and anxiety, disappointment, defeat, for 
a time — for a lonf time, perhaps; but I knoio that 
I shall find her in the end. The business of my 
life henceforth is to look for her.' 

Barbara's dull eyes held Earnest watch upon 
the young man's countenance as he spoke. Anx- 
iety, and even fear, were 'in that gaze* palpable 
to those who knew how to read the faint indica- 
tions of the woman's stolid face. 



Mr. Morrison brought the gig and pony to the 
western porch while Captain Arundel was talk- 
ing to his cousin's servant, and presently the in- 
valid was being driven across the flat between the 
Towers and the high road to Kernbe.rting. 

Mary's old favorite, Farmer Pollard's daugh- 
ter, came out of a iovr rustic shop as the gig 
drew up before her husband's door. This good- 
natured, tender-hearted Hester, adranced to 
matronly dignity under the name of Mrs. Jobson, 
carried a baf>y in her arms, and wore a white 
dimity hood, lhat made a pent-house over her 
simple rosy face. But at the sight of Captain 
Arundel nearly all the rosy color disappeared 
from the country woman's plump cheeks, and she 
stared aghast at the unle.oked-for visitor, almost 
ready to believe that, if any thing so substantial 
as a pony and gig could belong to the spiritual 
world, it was the phantom only of the soldier that 
she looked upon. , 

'OT),.Sir! she said; 'oh, Captain Arundel, is it 
really you?' 

Iklward alighted before Hester could recover 
from the surprise occasioned by his appearance. 

'Yes, {Mrs. Jobson,' he said. 'May I come into 
your house? [ wish to speak to you.' 

Hester courtesied, and stood aside to allow her 
visitor to pass her. Her manner was coldly re- 
spectful, and she looked at the young officer n ith 
a grave, reproachful face, which was strange to 
him. She ushered her guest into a parlor at (he 
back, of the shop»-a prim apartcaept, splendid 


with varnished mahogany, she 1 ! work-bescs-- 
boimht .duMNf; HfM-er's bom)-' r«a 'rip _lo » 
Lincolnshire watering place— and voiumin^ s 
ichie,ve:n«nt5 in t'.e way»of cnochet-won> ; a oi- 
geous and Sahbaih-daj c* aoibi-t, lookup <■'-. •■■■ 
a stand of geranium- into a garden tl-at vs> 
orderly and trimly kept t\en in thjs dull Novet. 
ber we:U';er. '. 

Mrs. Jobson drew forward an uneasy eary- 
\fih'a\r( covered with horse-hair, and veiled by a 
crochet-work representation of a peacock em- 
bowered a,mong roses. ,She oftVred this luxurious 
seat to Captain Arundel, who, in his weakness, 
was well content to sink down upon the. slippery 

'I have come here to ask you to help m#in my 
earch for my wife, Hester,' Edward Arundel 
said, in a scarcely audible voice. 

It is not given to the bravest mind tote utterly 
independent and defiant of ttie body; and the sol- 
dier was beginning to feel that he-had very nearly 
run the length of his tether, and must soon sub- 
mit himself to be prostrated by sheer physical 

'JTourwife!' cried Hestef, eagerly. 'Oh, Sir, 
is that true ■' 
'Is what true ?' 

'That poor Miss Mary was your lawful wedded 
wife?' • , 

. *» 'She was,' replied .Edward Arundel, sternly, 
'my true and lawful wife. What else should she 
have been, Mrs. Jobson ?' 
B The farmer's daughter burst into tears. 
; 'Ob, Sir,' she said, sobbing violently as she 
I spoke — 'Oh, Sir, the tbJngs that .was said against 
i that poor dear in thi" place and all about the 
> Tdwec#! The things that was said ! It makes my 
! heart bleed to think of them; it makes my heart 
' ready to break when I think what my poor sweet 
I young lady' must bave -suffered. And it set me 
! against you, Sir; and I thought you was a bad 
! and cruel-htarted man !' 

! 'What did they say?' cried Edward; 'what 'did 

I they dare to say against her or against me ?' 

! 'They said that you had .enticed her away 

; from her home, Sir, and that — that — there had 

| been no marriage; and that you'd deserted her 

afterward, and the railway accident had come 

upon you as a punishment like; and that Mrs. 

Marchmont had found poor Miss Mary all alone 

at a Country icn, and hadjirought her backtothe 


'But what if people did say this?' exclaimed 
Captain Arundel. ' You could have contradicted 
their foul slanders. You could have spoken in 
defense/ of my poor helpless girl.' 
'Ms, Sir!' 

' Yes. You must have heard the truth from 
my wife's own lips.' 

Hester Jabson burst into a new flood of tears 
as Edward Arundel said this. 

' Oh no, Sir,' she sobbed; ' that was the most 
cruel jhing of all. I never could get to see Miss 
Mary; they wouldn't let me see her.' 
''Who wouldn't let you?' 
*' Mrs. Marchment and Mr. Paul MaFchmont. 
I was laid up, Sir, when the report first spread 
about that Miss Mary had come home. Thincs 
was kept very secret, and it was said that. JVJrs.' 
Maicbmont was dreadfully cut up by the dis- 
grace that had come "upon her step-daughter. 
My baby was born about that time, Sir; but as 
soon as ever I could get about I went up to th*» 
Powers, in th^hope f seeing my poor dearmiw 



But Mrs. Simmons, Mrs. Marchmont's own maid, Mo try and comfort her; but Miss Mary had al- 
told me that Miss Mary was ill, very ill, and that/ ways been very reserved to all the servants, and 
no one was allowed to see hei except those that' Susan didn't dare intrude upon her. It was late 
waited upon her and that slie was used to. And /that evening when my poor young lady was 
I begged and prayed, that. I. might, oe allowed to I missed, and the servants sent out to look ior 
see her, Sir, with the tears in my eyes; for my / her.' 

heart bled for her, poor darling dear, when 1/ 'And you, Hester— yoi^gsnew my wife better 
thought of thje cruel things that were said against /than any of these people— where do you think 
her; a.nd thought that, witn all her riches and her.' »he went?' 

learning, folks could dare to ta-lk of her-as they / Hester Jobson >ooked piteously at the ques- 
wnuldn't dare to talk of a ,poor man's wife like / tioner. 

me. And r went up anain anrl again, Sir; but > 'Oh, Sir,' she cried; ' O, Captain Arundel, 
it was -no good; and, the last time 1 went, Ms. /don't ask me; pray, piay don'task me!' 
Marchiimnt c>,m,e out into the hall to me, and) ' You think like these other people— you think 
told me that I was intrusive and impertinent, and / that' she went away to destroy hersef ?' was me, and such as' me, as had set all '/ ' Oh, Sir, what can J think, what' can T think, 
manner of scandal atlnai about her step- daughter. / except- that ? She was last seen down by the 
But I went ai-ahi, S r, eye ■ after that, and I saw / water-side, and one of her shoes was .picked up 
Mr. Paul March monk and he was very kind to ,' among the rushes; and tor all there s be*-n such ■- 
me; and frank and f'ee-~p<iken — almost like jou. / a search made after her, and. a reward offered, 
Sir; and.- he, t"ld me V at Mrs. Marchmont was / ; ,nd advertisements ip.the papers, and every thing 
rather "tern axd -urif-irgivinsr toward, the poor \ d^n« that mortal could do to find her, and no 
young laily-r— he spoke very kind and pitiful of.: news of her, Sir — not a trace to tell of her being 
poor Miss Mary— and that he w.ouid stand my /living;; not a creature to come forward and speak, 
friend, and he'd contrive that I should see^my ' to her being seeivby them after that day. .What 
poor dear as soon as ever she picked up her spirits / can 1 think, Sin, What can 1 tbink, except — ' 
; a bit, and was more fit to see. me; and 1 was to / ' Except that she threw herself into the river 
come again in a week '§ time, lie said.' < at the back of Marchmont Towers.' 

' We.ll, and when'y'ou went— '. * ', ' I've "tried to think different, Sir; I've tried to 

' When I went, Sir,' sobbed, the carpenter'*! hope I should see the p.tior sweet iamb again; but 
wife, 'it was the 8th of October, and Miss ' I can't, I chii'i l*ve worn mourning f « r these 
Mary had run awny Upon the. day before, and ! three la-t Sundays, Sir; for I seemed to feel as 
every body at the Towers was being sent right^if it was a sin and a disTespectfulness towaid her 
and left to look for, her. J s^aw Mis. Marchmont to wear colors, a> d sit in the church where I have 
for a mtnutethat aftertjoon; and she was as '/ seen her »<i often, looking so meek and beautiful, a sheet, and all of a tremble from head ( Sunday after Sunday ' 

to foot, and she walked about the placa 8% if she j Edward Arundel bowed his head upon his 
was out of her mind like.' ' hands and wept silently. This woman's belief 

' Guilt,' thought the young soldier; 'guilt of in Mary's death afflicted him more than he dared 
some sort: God only know* what that guilt h'as confess to himself. He had defied Olivia and 
been.' ' # haul Marchmont, as enemies, who tried to force 

He covered his face with his hands, and waited a false conviction upon him; but he could neither 
to hear what more Hester Jobson had to fcll-him. j doubt nord^fy thishonest. warm-hearted creature, 
There was no need of questioning here; no reser-jwho wept aloud over the memory of his wife's 
vation or prevarication. With almost as tender j sorrows. He could not doubt her sincerity ; but 
regret as he himself could have felt, the car- /he still refused to accept the belief which on 
penter's wife told him all that she knew of the / every side was pressed upon him. He still re- 
sad story of Mary 's, disappearance. ' / fused to think that his wife was dead. 

* Nobody took much notice of me., Sir, in the/ ' The river was dragged for more than a week,' 
confusion of the place,' Mrs Jobson continued;; he said, presently, 'and nty wife's body was 
' and there is a parlor-maid at the Towers (felled / never found.' 

Susan Rose, that had" been a school-fellow with/ Hester Jobson shook her head mournfully, 
me ten years before, smd I got her to>tell me all / ' That's a poor sign, Sir, she answered; ' the 
about it. And she said that poor dear Miss ( river's full of holes, I've heard say. My husband 
Mary had been weak and ailing ever since shei.had a fellow-'prentice who drowned himself in 
had recovered from the brain-fever, and ijjnat she/ that river seven years ago, and his body was 
had shut herself up in her room, and had seen no/ never found.' ' 

one except Mrs. Marchmont and Barbara Sim-£ Edward Arundel rose-, and walked toward the 
mons; but on the seventeenth Mrs. Marchmont / door. 

sent for her, asking her to come t» the study./ ' I do not believe that my wife is dead ,'he cried. 
And the poor young lady went; and then Susan /He held out his hand to the carpenter's wife. 
Rose thinks that there was high words between !' God bless you,' he said. 'I thank you fr8m 
Mrs. Marchmont and her step-daughter, for as j my heart for your tender feeling toward my lost 
Susan wa.s crossing the hall, this poor miss came i girl.' . 

out of the gtudy, and Her face was all smothered j He went out to the gig, in which Mr. Morrison 
in tears, and she cried out, as'she came into the? waited for him, rather tired of bis morning's 
hall, I can't bear it any. longer. My life is too) work. 

miserable;' my fate is too wretched !'> And then j ' There is an inn a little way further along tha 
she ran up Stairs, and Susan Rose followed up tofstreet, Morrison,' Captain Arundelsaid. I shall 
her room and listened outside the door; and she/ stop there.' 
heard the poor d,ear sobbing and crying out again \ The man stared at his master, 
and again, ' Oh papa, papa.! If you knew what/ * And not go back to Marchmont Towers, Mr. 
I sutler! O papa, papa, papa!'— so pitiful, that/ Edward ?' 
if Susan Rosa had dared she would hare fon« iD \ « No. ' 


Edward Arundel had held nature iii abeyance / ton, if you cam. But I Warn you that, j^you 
for more than four-and-twenty hours, and this / keep me Jong here, I shall leave this place either 
outraged nature now took her revenge by flinging? a corpse or a madman.' 

the young man prostrate and powerless upon his \ The surged^, .drinking tea with his wife and 
bed at the simple Kemberling hostelry, and hold- \ brother-in-law half an hour, afterward, related 
ing him prisoner there f<jr three dreary days; 'the conversation that, had taken place between 
three, miserable days, with long, dark, intermin-/ himself and .his patient, breaking up :his'narra- 
able evenings, during which the invalid had no j tive with a great many ' I saids' and ' sai<f he's,' 
better e*mploy men t than to lie brooding over his' and with - a good .deal of rambling commentary 
sorrows, while Mr. Morrison read the T rues'" upon* the text. 

newspaper in a monotonous and droning voice for>: Lavinia Weston looked at her brother While 
his siek master's entertainment. / the surgeon told his story. 

How that helpless and prostrate prisoner, bound 'He is very desperate about his wife, then, 
hand and foot in the stern grasp of retaliative / this dashing young captain?' Mr. Marchmont 
Nature, loathed the leading articles, the foreign '> said, presently. 

correspondence, in the leviathan journal ! How/ ' Awful, 'answered the surgeon; ' regular a. w- 
he sickened at the fiery Engjish of Printing- House/ ful. I never saw any thing like it. Really it 
Square, as expounded by 1 Mr. Morrison! The ' was enough to cut a man up to hear him go^m 
sound of the valet's voice was like the unbroken >: so. He asked mie all sorts of questions about 
*flow of a dull river. The great names that/ the time when she was ill and I attended upon 
surged up every now and then upon that sullen her, and what did she suy to me, and did she 
tide.of oratory made no impression upon the sick <; seem very unhappy, and all that sort of thing, 
man's mind. What was it 10 him if the glory, of < : Upon my word, you know, Mr. Paul — of course 
England was in danger, thefreedom of a mighty^ I'm very glad to think of your coming into the 
•people wavering in the balance? What was it' fortune, and I'm very much obliged to you for 
to him if famine-stricken Ireland were perishing,- the kind promises you've made to Tne and La- 
and the faraway Indian possessions menaced oy'/ vinia; but-I almost "ftlt as if I could have wished 
-contumacious and treacherous Sikhs? What ; the poor young lady hadn't drowned herself. ' 
was it to him if the heavens were shriveled like/ Mrs. Weston, shrugged her shoulders, and 
a blazing scroll, and, the earth reeling on its' looked at Tier brother, 
shaken founditiohs? What had he to. do with/ 'Imbecile !' she mustered. 

any' catastrophe except that which had fallen/ She was accustomed to talk to her brother 
upon his innocent young wife?. t / very freely, in rather school-girl French .before 

• Oh my bVoken tru>t !' he muttered some times,/ her husband, to whom that language was as the 
to^the alarm of the confidential servant; ' Oh my< most incondite of tongues, and who heartily ad- 
broken trust!' | mired her for superior knowl< dge. 

But during the three days in which Captain( He sat staring at her now, and eating bread- 
Arundel lay in the* best chamber at the B ack iand-butler with a simp'e relish, which in itself 
Bull — the chief inn of KemOerling, and a very; was enough to mark him oui as a man to be 
splendid place of public entertainmfnt long ago, \ trampled upon. , 

when all the north ward-bound roaches had i assed ' _ * 

through that quiet Lincolnshire village — he wsre j • On the fourth day after his interview With 
not without a medical attendant t>> give him some < Hester, Edward Arundel was .strong enough to 
feeble help in the way of drugs and doctor's stuff, leave, his rhamhrr at the Klack Bull, 
in the batlle which he wa- fighting with offended \ , < I s'all go to L ndon by to-nieht's mail. Mor- < 
Nature. I don't know but. what the help, 'how- \ rison,' he said to his servant; 'but before 1 leave 
ever well intended, may have gone rather to (Lincolnshire I must pay another visit to March- 
strengthen the hntid of the enemy; for in those f mom Towers, You can stop here, and pack my 
days — the year '4tf. is. very long ago when, w e < portmanteau while I go.' 

tdkethe measure of time by science — country; A iumb ! ing old fly — looked upon as a splen- 
prachtoners were apt to place themselves upon 'did equipage by. the 'inhabitants of Kemberling 
the side of the disease rather than* of the paiit-nt, ', — was fun i-hed for Cup'am Arund«] V accom- 
and to assist grim. Death in his siege, by lending } modation by the proprietor of the Back Bull; 
the professional aid of purgatives and phlebotomy ; and once more the. soldier approached that ill- 

On this principle Mr." George Weston, the sur- ^mened dwelling-place- whicji had been the home 
geon of Kemberling, and the submissive and wHl- ;of his wife. 

tutored husband of Paul Marthmont's sister, J He was ushered without any delay to the study 
would fain have set to work with the prostrat* ; in which Olivia spent the greater part of her 
soldier, on the plea that the patient's skin was {time. t 

hotanddry, and his white lips parched with fever. [ The dusky afternoon was already closing in. 

But Captain Arundel protested vehemently ; A low tire burned in the old-fashioned grate, and 
against any such treatment. ;one lighted wax candle stood upon an open daven- 

' You shall not lake an ounce of blood out of {port, at which the widow sal amidst a confusion 
my veins,' he said, "or give me one drop of medi-Jof torn papers,, cast upon the ground about her. 
cine that will weaken me. What I want is j The open drawers of the davenport, the lit— 
strength; strength to gef up and leave this int<d-{tered scraps of paper and loose y-tied documents, 
erable room, and go about the business that I have ^thrust, without any show of ord. r, into thedifferent 
to do. As to. fever,' he added, scornfully, ' as 'compartments of the desk, bore testimony to that 
long ai 1 have" to lie here and am hindered from Estate of mental distraction which had- been com- 

going about the business of my life, every drop' mon to Olivia Marchmont for some time past. 

of my blood will boil^with a fever that all the ; She herself, the gloomy tenant of the Towers, 
drugs in Apothecaries' Hall would have no power {sat with her elbow resting on her desk, looking 
to subdue. Give me something to strengthen {hopelessly and absently at the co'nfujion before 
me. Patch me up somehow or other, Mr. Wes- ', her. 



'I am very tired,' she said with, a sigh, as she ) Edward' Arundel paused for a little while, 
motioned her cousin to a chair 'I have been try- j brooding over this grange reply to his appeal 
ing u sort my papers, and to' look for 1 bills that " 
luve lo be paid, and, receipts. Th«y come to me 

about everj thing. 1 am very tired.' Her manner 
was changed from that ste^n defiance with which 
she had last confronted her kinsman to an air of 
almost piteous feebleness. She rested her head 
on her hand, repeating, in a low voice,- "Yes, I 
am very tired. : 

Could he disbelieve Ins cousin 

It is common to some people to make forcible 
and impious asseverations of an untruth shame- 
lessly, in the very face of an insulted Heaven. 
But Olivia Marchmont was a woman who,, in the 
very darkest hour of her despair, knew no waver- 
ing from her faith in the God she had offended. 
I can not refuse to believe you, Olivia,' Cap- 

Edward Arundel looked earnestly at her faded < tain Arundel said, presently. '1 do believe in your 
face, so faded from that which he remembered it ; solemn protestations, and I no longer look for 
in its proud young beauty, that, in spile of his jfaelp from you in my search for my lost love. I 
doubt of this woman, he could scarcely refrain ( absolve you from all suspicion of being aware of 
from some touch of pity for her. '■ her fate after she left this house. But so long as 

'You are ill, Olivia,' be said. * ' she remained beneath this roof she was in your 

'Yes, I am ill; I am worn out; I am tired of my \ care, and I hold you responsible for the ills that 
life. Why does not God have pity upon me, and * may have then befallen her. You, Olivia, must 
tafce the bitter burden away ? I have carried it too have had some hand in driving that unhappy girl 
long.' She said this not so much to her cousin as to : away from her home.' i 

herself. She was like Job in his despair, and ' The widow bad resumed her seat by the open 
cried aloud to the SupTeme Himself in a gloomy ; davenport. She sat with her head bent, her brows 
protest against her anguish. I contracted, her mouth fixed and rigid, her left 

'Olivia,' said Edward Arundel very earnestly, i hand trifling absently with the scattered papers 
'what is it that makes you unhappy ? Is the bur- j before her. 

den that you carry a burden on your conscience? i 'You accused me of this once before, when 
Is the black shadow upon yout life a guilty secret? i-Mary Marchmont left this house,' she said, sm- 
Is the cause of your unhappiness that which I lenly. 

suspect it to be? Is it that,' in some hour of pas 
sion, you consented to league yourselfwilh Paul ; 
Marchmont against my poor innocent girl ? For j 
pity's sake, speak, and undo*vhat you have done. ! 
You can not have been.guilty of a crime. There J 
has been some foul play, some conspiracy, some ;. 

'And you were guilty then,' answered Edward. 

'I can not hold myself answerable for the ac- 
tions of others. Mary Marchmont left this time 
as she left before, of her own free will.' 

'Driven away by your cruel words.' 

'She must have been very weak,' answered 

suppression; and my darling has been lured away \ Olivia, with a sneer, 'if a few harsh wards were 
by the machinations of this man. But he could j enough to drive her away from her own hous'e.' 
not have got her into his power without your help. ) 'You deny, then, that you were guilty of 
You hated her — Heaven^alone knows for what j causing this poor deluded child's flight from this 
reason — and in an evil hour you helped him, and {•house?"' 

now you are sorry for what yon have done. But ! Olivia Marchmont sat for some moments in 
it is not too late, Olivia; Olivia, it is surely not - moody silsnce; then suddenly raising her head, 
too late. Speak, speak, woman, and undo what j she looked her cousin full in the face, 
you have done. As you hope for- mercy and for-') 'I do,' she exclaimed; 'if any one except her- 
giveness from G«d, undo what jou have done. I ; self is guilty of an act which was her own, I am 
wilt exact no atonement from you, Paul March- J not that person.' 

mon't, this smooth traitor, this frank man of the 'I understand,' said Edward AruDdel; 'it was 
world, who defied me with a smile — he only shall Paul Marchmont's hand that drove her out upon 
be called upon to answer for the sin done against the dreary world. It was Paul Marchmont's 
my darling. Speak, Olivia, for pity's sake, 'cried brain that plotted against her. Y'ou were only a 
the young man, casting himself upon his knees at minor instrument, a willing fool, in the hands of 
his cousin's feet. 'You are of my own blood; you \ a subtle villain. But he shall answer; he shall 
must have some spark of regard for me; have \ answer !' 

compassion upon me, then, or have compassion ', 
upon your own .guiity soul., which must perish 
everlastingly it' you t withhold the truth. Hane 
pity, O.ivij, and speak!' 

The widow had risen to her feet, recoiling from 

The soldier sp'oke the last words between his 
clenched teeth. Then, with "his chin upon his 
breast, he sat thinking over what he had just 

'How was it?' he muttered; 'how was it? He 

the soldier as he knelt before her, and looking at as too consummate a villain to use violence. His 
him with an awful light in ihe eyes that alone manntr the other morning told me lhat the law 
gave light to rfer corpse-like face. \ was on his side. He had donf nothing to puthim- 

Siddetjiy she flung tier arm < up above her head, ] self into my power, and he defied me. How was 
■ feuhing her wasted Lands toward the ceiling, j it, then ? By what means did he drive my darling 

T'y 'tn. God who has ;eui ui.etd and abandoned ; to her despairing flight?' 

jie,' sue ciK'ri. 'I have >io more b "-wlpdie thai: 
jou have of Mary Maiciimout's fat. From the 
i ... m w !'i- h she jel't this ,ho..ise. hp n the 170 
if October, until this present moment, I have 
•jither seen her nor heard of her If I have Tied 
to you, Ed J Arunde' 
^er extendi.; arms, and 

AsOip ain Arundel sat inking; -of these things, 
bis cousin's idle fir-gt r.- st'i'l trifled with the papers 
•>•'• (he desk; while, with her chin resting on 1 er 
other hand, and her eyes fixed upon the vail b 1 --:- 
foie her, she stored blankly at the reflection of 'hi 

' she add* I, dropping > flame of the candle on the polished oaken panel. 

turning quietly to i er > .Her idle fingers, following no design, straved bci? 

usm — 'if I have lied to you in saying this, may ; and there among the scattered" papers, i.ntil a fev 
8 tortures which I suffer be dihbled to me — if- that lay rmarest the edge oi t;i.e nest s'id off i! ■: 
h ... t oi suijari g u.iie js any anguish , aijooth morocco, and fluttered to tho grour.d. 
*(.-. d thsn that I now endure. < Edward Arundel, as absent-minded as hh cousin, 

JOHJV MARCHMONr'S legacy. ,__■*' Wi 

stooped involuntarily to pick up the papers. The (newspaper. That paragraph was the key to the 
uppermost of those that had fallen was, a slip cut *»d mastery tf Mary Arundel's disappearance. 
fi»m a countrynewspaper, to which was pinned 'Her husbai.d could understand novv why she ran 
anjopen letter, a few lures only.- The paragraph ■ away, why sh.e despaired; and how, in that dea- 
in the newspaper slip was marked by double ink '' perat ion and despair, she might have hastily ended 
litfcs, drawn round it by a neat penman. Again, ', her short life. • 

ajlhoat involuntarily., Edward Arundel looked at '> It was with altered feelings, therefore, that he 
this marked paragraph. It was very Brief : i went forth to look for her. He was no longer pas- 

'■'. . i sionate and impatient, for he no longer believed 

'We regret to be eal.led upon to stale that an- ; that Mis young wife lived-lo yearn for his coming, 
other of the sufferers in the accident which oc- J and to suffer for the want of his protection; he no 
curred last August on the Southwestern Railway ! longer thought of heras a lonely andhelpiess vvan- 
has expired from injuries received upon that oc- \ derer driven from her rightful hdme, and intiier 
casion. Captain Arundel, of the H. E. I. C. S., 'childish ignorance straying farther and farther 
died on Friday night at Danger-field Park, Devon, > away from him who had the right to succor and to 
the seat of his elder brotlter. ' t ; comfort her. Ivo; he thought of her now with 

i .r- , ( sullen despair at his heart; bethought of her now 

F The Jetter was almost as brief as' the para- < in utter hopelessness; he thought of her with a 
graph: bitter and agonizing regret, that was almost too 

terrible for endurance. 
'Kemberling, October 17. ■ But this grief was not the only feeling that held 

'My Dear Mrs. Marchmont, — The inclosed . possession of the young soldier's breast. Stronger 
has just come to hand. Let us hope it is not true. ', even than his sorrow was his eager yearning for 
But, in case of the worst, it should be shown to ': vengeance, his savage desire for retaliation. 
Miss Marchmont immeUitilely . Better that she' 'I look upon Paul Marchmont as the murde,rer 
should hear the neVs from jou than from a stran- of my wife,'iie said to Olivia, on that November 
ger. Yours sincerely, ; evening on which lie saw the paragraph in the 

'Paul Marchmont.' ' newspaper^'! look npon that man as the deliberate 
' destroyer of a helpless girl; and he shall answer' 

'I ufidyerstand every thing now,' s^id Edward ,' to me for her life. He shall answer to me for 
Arundel, laying these two papers before his coil- \ every pang she suffered, for every tear she shed, 
sin; 'it was with this printed lie that you and Paul '/ God have mercy upon her poor erring soul; aid 
Marchmont drove my wife to despair— perhaps to / help me to my vengeance upon her destroyer.' 1 
death. My darling, my darling,' cried the young' He lifted his eyes to heaven as he spoke, and a 
man, in a burst of uncontrollable agony, 'lre-1 solemn shadow overspread his pale face, like a 
fused to believe that you were dead; I refusetL to! dark cloud upon a winter landscape, 
believe ttiat you were lost to me: 1 can believe it I have said that Edward Arundel no longer 
now; I can believpitndw !' i felt a' frantic impatience to discover his wife's 

: fate. The sorrowful conyiction which at last 

.- had forced itself upon him left no room for ini- 

~ ■*■++-■ . ; patience. The pale face he had loved was lying 

' hidden somewhere beneath those dismal waterj. 

CHAPTER XXV ; He had no doubt of that. There was no need of 

, . .any other solution to the mystery of his wife's 

EDWARD aruotel s despair. ^disappearance. That which he had to seel for 

Ye*; Edward Arundel could believe the worst;, was the evide»ce of Paul Marchmont's guilt. 
nolsr. He could believe now, that his young wife, ,' The outspoken young soldier,, whose nature 
on hearing tidings of his death, had rushed madly J was as transparent as the stainless soul of a child, 
to her own destruction; too desolate, too utterly } had to ent«r into the lists with a man who was so 
unfriended and miserable, to live under the bur- j different to himself, that it was almost difficult to 
den of her sorrows. , ; believe that the two individuals belonged to the 

Mary had talked to her husband in the happy, j same species, 
loving confidence of her bright honey-moon; s t ', Captain Arundel went back to London, and be- 
had talked to him of her father's death, and the J took himself forthwith to the office of Messrs. 
horrible grief she had felt; the heart-sickness, the (Paillette, faulette, and Matthewson. He had 
eager yearning to be earned to the same grave,; the idea, commpn to many of- his class, that all 
rest in the >ame silent sleep. < lawyers, whatever claims they might have to re- 

'1 think 1 tried to tfirow myself from the win- ' t spectability , were in a manner past-masters in 
dovPuponthe night lief -re papa's funeral,' she j every villainous art, and, as, such, the proper 
had said; 'but 1 fainted away. I know it was ') people lo deal with a villain. 
very wicked of me. But I was mad. My wretch-;! 'iiichacd Pauletie will be able to help rpe,' 
edness had driven me mad.' ' .', thought, the young man. 'Richard Paulette saw 

He remembered this. Might not this girl, this ') through Paul Marchmont, 1 dure say.' 
helpless child, in the first despeiatron of her gritf.; Cut Richard- Paulette had very little to say 
have hurried down to ttiat dismal river to hide ,'.)bout It.e matter. _ Ho had known Edward Arun- 
her sorrows forever under its slow and murky ;del's father, and h'e had known the young : soldier 
tide? ' 'I'rom his.tariy boyhood, and he seemed dt4plv 

. Henceforward it was whh a rew fettling ihat ; grieved to vvitr.ess'hi = client's distr,ef<s; but he had 
Edward Arundel looked for his missi'4j wife. The (nothing to say against Paul Marchmont. 
young and, hopeful spirit which had wrestled,. -\ can not see what light you have to suspect 
against conviction, wnich had stubbornly pre-;, Mr. Marchmont of any guilty share in your 
served its own sanguine fancies against the gioothy wffe'stitsappearanee,' he said. 'Do nofthink I 
forebodings of others, had broken down before ) defend him because he is our client. You know 
the evidence of that false paragraph in the country < that we are rich enough and honorable enough to 


refuse the business of any man whom we thought J world- it is!' he thought. 'Let a man succeed in 
a villain. When 1 was in Lirfcolnshit;e, Mr. I the vilest scheme, and no living' creature wilL 
Marchmont did every thing that a nun could do I care to ask by what foul means he may have won 
to testify his anxiety to find his cousin.' j his success. What weapons can, I use againbt,' 

'Oh, yes,' Edw-ard Arundel answered, bitterly; > this Paul Marchmont, who twists truth and hon- 
'that is only consistent with the man's diabolical ! esty to his own ends, and masks his basest treaeii-!, 
artifice; that was a part of his scheme. He | ery under an app«arance of candor?' 
wished to testify that anxiety, and ke wanted I From Lincoln's Inn Fields Captain ArunSel 
you as a witness to his conscientious search after ( drove over Waterloo Bridge to, Oakle.y Street; 
my — poer — lost girL' His voice, and rrfhrmer | He went to Mrs. Pimpernel's establishment, with- 
changed for a moment as he spoke of Mary. ; out any hope of the glad surprise .that had met 

Richard Paulette shook his head. <him there a few months before. He believftd' 

Prejudice, prejudice, my dear Arundel,' he j implicitly that his wife was dead, and wherever 
said; 'this is all prejudice upon your part, I as- j he went in search of her he went in utter hope- 
sure jou. Mr. Marchmont behaved with perfect ' iessness, only prompted by the desire to leave no 
honesty and candor. "1 won't tell you that I'm ', part of his duty undone*. 

sorry to inherit this fortune,' he said, 'because if ', The honest-hearted dealer in cast-off apparel 
I did you wouldn't believe me — what man in his, wept bitterly when she heard how sadly the Cap- 
senses could believe that a poor devil of a land- j tain's honey-moon had ended. She would have 
scape-painter would regret coming into eleven ', been content to detain the young soldier all day 
thousand a year?-butl am very so*rry for thi-,' while she bemoaned the misfortunes fbat had 
poor Jittla girl's unhappy fate." And I believe,' J come upon him; and now for the first time Ed- 
added Mr. Pau'ette, decisively, 'that the man ', ward heaid of dismal forebodings, and horrible 
was heartily sorry.' < dreams, and unaccounti'.le presentiments of evil, 

Edwnrd Arui.del groaned aloud. '', with » hich this honest woman had been afflicted 

'O God ! this is too terrible,' he muttered. \ on and before his wedding-day, and of which she 
|Ev ry body will believe in this man rather than ;' had made special mention at the time to divers 
in me. How am I to be avenged upon the wretch J friends and acquaintance. 

who caused tin darling's death?' '< 'I never shaii forget how shivery-like I/elt as 

He talked for a longtime to the lawyer, but ] the cab drove off, with that poor dear a'lo'risin' 
with no result. Richard Paulette set do*n the j and smilin' at me out of the window. I says to 
young man's hatred of Paul Marchmont as a j Mrs. Poison, as her husband is in the shoe- 
natural consequence of his grief for' Mary 's j makin' line two doors further down-^I says, 'I 
death. < J do hope Capting Harungdeir's lady will get safe 

•1 can't wonder that you are prejudiced against { to the end of her journey." 1 feH the ci.Jd- 
Mr. Marchmont,' he said; 'it.'s natural, it's onl\ J shivers a-creepin' up my back just exjnckly like 
natural; but, believe me, you are wrong. No"- [ 1 did a for tnight'before my pore Jane died, and I. 
thing could be more straightforward, and even \ couldn't but think as somethink sarious was goin' 
delicate, than his conduct. He refuses to take J to happen.' 

possession of the estate, or to touch a farthing of J Fiora London Captain Arundel went to Win- 
theienis. "No," he said, when I suggested to j Chester, much to the dh-gusL of his valet, who 
him that he had a right to enter in possession — J was accustomed to a luxuriously idle lie at Dati- 
"no; we will not shut .he do. r against hope. Myjgerfield Park, and who did not by ai.y means 
cousin may be hiding herself somewhere; she ', reiish this desultory wandering from place to 
may return by-and-by. Let us wait a twelve- J place. Perhaps there was some faint i ay of hope 
mouth. If, at the end of that lime she does not', in the young man's mind as he drew near to that 
return, and if m the interim we receive no tidings little village-inn beneath whose shelter lie hud 
from her, no evidence of h-r existence, we may J been so happy wilh his childish bride. If she 
reasonably conclude that she is dead; and J may £ nad not committed suicide; if -she had indeed 
fairly consider' myself the rightful owner of ', wandered away, to try and her sorrows in 
Marchmnul Towers In the me,, n tunc, you will J gentle Christian resignation; if she had sought 
act as if you were acting as Mary Murchinont s ) some retieat where she might be safe from her 
agent, hoidmg all moneys as in trust fur her, but , tormentors — would not wery instinct of her luv- 
tu be delivered up to me at the expiration of a •) trig heart have ltd her here ?— tiere, amidst these 
year from the day on which she disappeared." I J low meadows and winding streams, guard- d aid 
do not think any thing could be moie stiaightfor- J surrounded by the ples^ant shelter of grassy hill- 
ward than that,' added Richard Paulette, in con-)' tops crowned by waving trees?— here, where she 
elusion shad been so happy with the husband of her 

'iMo,' Edward answered, with a sigh; 'it seems X choice ?■ ' '• 

very straighforward. But ttft man who could J But, alas, that newly born hope, which had 
strike at a hr.Jpless girl by means of a lying para-/' made the sodier's heart beat a,nd his cheek 
graph in a newspaper — ' $ flush, was as delusive as many other hopes that 

'Mr. Marchmont may have believed in that;! lure men and women onward in their weary 
paragraph.' j wanderings upon this earth. The "landlord of 

Edward Arundel arose with a gesture of im-Jthe White Hart Inn answered Edward Arundel's 
patience.' v ', question with stolid indifference. 

'I came to you for help, Mr. Panlette,'he said;;! No; the young lady had gone away with her 
'but 1 see you don't mean to help me. Good-' Ma, and a gentleman who came with her Ma.- 
day-' ,;' She had cried a deal, poor-thing, and had seemed 

He left the office before the lawyer could re- ;' very much cut up. (It was from tbe chamber- 
> loustrate with him. He walked away, with £ maid Edward heard this.^) But her Ma and the 
p.i,' ionute anger against all the world raging in; gentleman had seemed in a great hurry to take ' 
his breast. ■< her away. The gentleman said that a vi]Jage-inn 

'Whr, what a smooth-spoken, falsc-tongued f wasn't the place for her, and he said he was very 


much shocked to find her there; an% he had a fly ! The brother aud sister conversed in subdued muw- 
p>t, and took the two ladies away in it to the ) murs as they stood close together before the ex- 
.George, at Winchester, and' they were to go ' piring fire-, and the faces of both were very gray*. 
from there to London ; and the young lady was ; almost apprehensive. . 

crying when-she went away, and was as pale as j 'He must be terribly in earnest,' Paul March- 
death, poor dear. ; m0 nt said; 'or he would never have sacrificed his 
.» T"his was all that Captain Arundel gained by (position. He ha» planted himself here, close 
jhisJB.ufney to Milldale. lie went across country , upon us, with a determination of watching us. 
to the farming people near .Ke-d itijf , his wife's i We shall have to be very careful.' 
ipoor relatives. But ihey had tear* no<hing of! 

jher They had wondered, indeed, at having to ; It was early in the new year that Edward 
lletters from her; for she had been very kind to ;' Arundel completed all his arrangements and took 
them. They were terribly distressed wheu they j possession of Kemberling Retreat. He knew 
heard of her disappearance. j that, in retiring from the Eust India Company's 

This was the fofiorn hope. It was all over ; service, -he had sacrificed the prospect* of a bfil- 
now. 'Edward. Arundel could no longer struggle j Jia-nt and glorious career, under mme of the 
against the cruel truth. He could do nothing ' finest soldiers who' aver fousht f.-r their country, 
nuw but avenge his wife's sorrows. He went < But he had made llm sacrifice willingly — as an 
down to Devonshire, sa.w his thother, and t- Id J offering to the memory of his lost love; an an 
her. the sad.'*tory of Mary's flight. But he could j atonement f.»f- his broken trust. For it was one 
not rest at Dangerfiehf", though Mrs. Arundel im- ; of his most, bitter miseries to remember- tint his 
plored him to stay long enough to recruit.his shat- j own want of pruderice had been-the first came of 
tered health. He hurried back to London made J all Mary's sorrows. Had he confided in his mo- 
arrangements wiih his agent fur the purchase oftther— had he induced her to return from Ger- 
his captaincy atnony his brother officers, and i many to be present at his marriage, and to ac- 
then, turning his back upon the career that had cept the orphan girl as a daughter— Mary n«*d 
been far dearer £o him than his hie he went never again have fallen into the power of Olivia 
down to Lincolnshire once more in the dreary Marchmont. His o* n imprudence, his own rush- 
wintry weather, to watch and wait patiently, if j nes-*, -had 'rating his pi or child, helpless and 
need were, for the day of retribution. friendless, into the hands of the very man against 

There was. a detached cottage, a lonely place > whom John Marchmont had written a solemn 
enough, between Kemberling and Marchmont > warning — a warning that it would have been Ed- 
Towers, that had been to let for a long time, be- j ward's drny to remember. But who could hare 
ing very much out of repair, and by no means m- ; calculated upon- the railway accident; and who 
viting in appearance. Edward Arundel took this could have foreseen a separation in the fusl blush 
cottage. All necessary repair* and alterations ,' of the honey-moon ? Edward Arundel had trusted 
were executed under the direction of Mr. Morri- Jin his own power to protect his bride from every 
son, who was to remain permasently in the ' ill that might assail her. In the pride of his 
young man's service. Captain Arundel had a jou,th and strength he forgot that he was not ira- 
couple of horses brought down to hia new stable, \ 'mortal . and the last idea that could have entered 
and hired a country lad, who was to act as groom '•', hi^ mil d was the thought that he should he 
under the eye of the factotum. Mr. Morrison ; stricken down by a sudden calamity, and rendered 
and this lad, with one feaiale servant, forntea , even more h«lpU-s» than the girl he had sworn to 
Edward's establishment. shield and shelter. 

Paul Marchmont lifted his auburn eyebrows The bleak winter crept slowly past, and the 
when he heard of the new tenant of Kemberling shrill March winds were loud ^midst the leafier 
Retreat. The lonely cottage had been- chris- , trees, in, the \»ond behind Marchmont Towers, 
tened Kemberling Retreat by a sentimental ten- This wood was open to ar:y foot-pas»enger who 
ant, who had ultimately levanted with his rent might choose to wander th>t way; and Edward 
three quarters in arrear. The artist exhibited a. Arundel often walked upon the bank of the slow- 
gentlemanly surprise at this ne;w vagary of Ed- river, and past the boat-house, beneath whose 
ward Arundel's, and publicly expressed his pity shadow he had wooed his you&g wife in the bright 
for the foolish young man. summer that was gone. The place had a mourn- 

'I am so sorry that the poor fellow should ■; ful attraction for the young man, by reason of 
sacrifice himself to a romantic grief for my un- : the memory of the past, and a different arid far 
fortunate cousin;' Mr. Marchmont said, in the : keener/ascination in the fact of Paul March- 
parlor of the Black Bull, where he condescended ; mont's frequent occupation of his roughly-built 
to drop in now and then with his brother-in-law, painting room. , 

and to make himself popular among the magnates In a purposeless and unsettled frame of mind 
of Kemberling and the tenant farmers, who Edward Arundel kept watch upon the man he 
looked to him as their future, if not their actual hated, scarcely knowing why he watched, or for 
landlord'. 'I am really sorryfor the poor lad. what he hoped, but with a vague belief that 
He's a handsome, high-spiriied fellow, and I'm something. would be discovered; that some acrj- 
sorry he's been so weak as to ruin his prospects ; dent might come to pais r.hich would enable him 
in the Company's service. Yes, I am heartily to say to Paul Maiehmont : 

sorry for him.' \ 'Iu was by your treachery my wife perished; 

Mr. Marchmont discussed the matter very j and it is you who must answer to me for her 
lightly in the parlor of the Black Bug; but he 'death.' 

kept silence as he walked home with the surgeon ; ' Ed.waid Arundel had seen nothing of his Cousin 
and Mr. George Weston, looking askance at his ■ Olivia during that dismal winter. He had held 
brother-in-law's face, saw that something was , himielf aloof from ihe Tow"ers— that is to say, ho 
wrong, and thought it advisable to hold his peace, j had never presented himself there as a guest 
Paul Marchmont sat up late that night talking though he had been often on horseback and on 
to hii «»ter after the surgeon had gone to bed. foot in the wood by the river. He had not seen 


Olivia, but he'bal heard of her through his va'et. < blowing amoif the leafless trees, swirliDg the 
Mr. Morrison, iiiBisiei on repealing the go-- > black pools of water tlu't ihe rain had left ir' 
sip of Kemberiing for the beueiit of his Jistles? ■ i-.-.vry boliow; the'smoke iVom the chimney ol' 
and indifferent master. - Paul Marchmont's, painting-ioom struggled hope,; 

'They do say as Mr. Paul Marchmont is going '■ lessly against, the wind, ai.d was beaten back' 
to marry Mrs. John IJIarchmorit, Sir,' Mr. iVIor • <pon the roof from which it tried to rise. Every 
risun said, delitihied at the importance of his h\-< hing succumbed before that pitiless northeaster, 
formation. ' i'hey say as Mr. Paul is always is,. < Edward Arundel knocked at the door of the 
at the. Towers visiting Mrs. John', ami that jl* ) wooden edifice erected by his ke. He scarcely 
take* bis advice about every thing 35 she does. J waited for the answer to his "summons, but lifted' 
and that she's quite wrapped up in him like.' ;'the latch, and walked across th« threshold, unin- 

Edward Arundel looked at his attendant with ; vited. unwelcome, 
unmitigated surprise. ' There were four people in the painting-room. 

'My Cousin Olivia marry Paul MarchmontV 'Two or three seemed to have been talking to- 
he exclaimed ' Vou should be wiser than together when Kdward knocked at the door; but 
listen to such foolish gossip, Morrison. You know, the speakers had stopped simultaneously and 
what country people are, and jOu know they can't '/ abruptly, and there was a dead silence when h« 
keep their tongues quiet.' : entered. 

tdr Morrison took this -reproach a's a compli- ! Olivia Marchmont w;a,s standing under the 
ment to his superior intelligence. > broad northern window; the artist was sitting 

'Jt ain't oftentimes I listen to their talk, Sir;' i upon one of the steps leadftig up to the pavilion; 
he said; 'but if I've heard this said once I've and a few paces from him, in an old cane-chair 
heard it twenty times; and I've heard it at the ,' n»-ar the easel, sat George Weston, the surgeon, 
Black Bull, too, Mr. Edward, where Mr. March- J with his wife leaning over the back of his chair. 
raont frequents sometimes with his sister's bus- i It was at this man lhat Edward Arundel looked 
bat>d;andthe landlord told me as it had been (longest, riveted by the. strange expression of his 
spoken of once before his face, and he didn't ' face/. The traces of intense agitation have a pe- 
deny it.' _ l culiar force when seen in a usually stolid counte- 

Edward Arundel pondered gravely over this i nance. Your mobile faces are apt to give an 
gossip of the Kemberiing people. It was not so ■ exaggerated record of emotion. We grow ac- 
very improbable, perhaps, after all. Olivia only ; customed to their changeful expression, their 
held Marchmont Tower* on sufferance. It might ; vivid betrayal -of every passing sensation. But 
be that, rather than be turned out of her stately ; this man's was one of those faces which are only 
boms, she would accept the hand of its rightful < ahanged from their apathetic stillness by some 
owner. She would marry Paai Marchmont, per- { moral earthquake, whose shock arouses the dull- 
baps, as she bad married his brother — for'the;est man from his stupid imperturbability. Such 
sake of a fortune and a position. She had • a shock had lately affected George Weston* the 
grudged Mary her wealth, and now sh'e sought to quiet surgeon«of Kemberiing, the submissive hus- 
becouie a sharer in that wealth. , j band of Paul Marchmont's sister. His face was 

'Oh, the villainy, the villainy!' cried the sol- J as white as death; a slow trembling shook his 
dier. 'It is all one base fabric of treachery and ; ponderous frame" 1 , with one of his big fat hands 
wrong. A marriage between these two will be ; he nulled a cotton handkerchief from his pocket, 
only a part of the scheme. Between them they ; anfl tremulously wipe^j the perspiration from his 
have driven my darling to her death, and they : bald forehead. His wife bent over him, and 
will now divide" the profits of their guilty work.'.; whispered a lew words in his ear'; but he shook 

The young man, determined to discover whe- Miis head with a piteous gesture, as if to testify 
ther there had been any foundation for ihe Kem- { his inability to comprehend her. It was impose 
berling gossip. He had not seen his cousin since ! sible for a man to betray more obvious signs of 
the day of his discovery of the paragraph in ihe j violent agitation than this man betrayW. ' 
newspaper, and he went forthwith to the Towers, > ' 'It's no use, Lavinia,' he murmured, hope- 
bent on asking Olivia the straight question as j lessly, as his. wife whispered to him for the see- 
to the truth of the reports that had reached his ' ond time; 'it's no use, my dear; I can't get over 
ears. _ f it.' 

He walked over to ths dreary mansion. He ( ' Mrs, Weston cast one rapid, half-despairing, 
had regained his strength by this time, and he half-appealing glance at her brother, and in the 
had recovered his\good looks; but something of j next moment recovered herself, by an effort only 
the brightness of his youth was gone; something } such as great women, or wicked women, are ca- 
of the golden glory of his beauty had faded. He j pable ofi 

was no longer the young Apollo, fresh and ra- 'Oh, you men !' she cried, in her liveliest voice; 
diant with the divihity of the skies. He had suf- j 'oh, you men ! What big silly babies, what ner- 
fer--d; and suffering had left- its traces on his ( vous creatures you are! Come, George, I won't 
countenance. That virgin hopefulness, that su- I have you giving way to> this foolish nonsense, just 
preme confidence in a bright future, which is the j because an extra glass or so of Mrs. Marchmont's 
virginity of beauty, had perished bsneatb the J very line old port has happened to disagree with 
withering influence of affliction. you. You must not think that we are a drunk- 

Mrs. Marchmont was not to be seen at the ard, Mr. Arundel,' added the lady, turning play- 
Towers. She had gone down to the boat-house ' fully to Edward, and patting -her husband's 
with Mr. Paul Marchmont and Mrs. Weston, the ; clumsy shoulder as she spoke; 'we are only a poor 
»ervant,said. ' ; village surgeon with a very weak head, and quite 

•I will see them together,' Edward Arundel [ unaccustomed to pale old port. Come, Mr. 
thought. 'I will see if my cousin dares toUell i George Weston, march out into, the opert air, 
me that she means to marry this man.' * ! Sir, and let us see if the March wind will bring 

He walked through the wood to tbedilapidated (you back yoursenses.' 
building by the river. The Maich winds were \ And without another word Lavinia Weston 



Justled her husband, who walked like a man in 
a dream, out of the painting-room, and closed 
the door behind her. 

Paul Marchmont laughed as the door shut upon 
his brother-in-law. 

'Poor Grorge!' he said, carelessly; 'I thought 
he helped himself to the port a little too liberally. 
He never could stand a glass of wine; and he's 
the most stupid creature when he is drunk.' 

Excellent as all this by-play was, Edward 
Arundel was not deceived by it. 

'Tne man was not drunk,' he thought; 'he was 
frightened. What could have happened to throw 
him into that state? What mystery are these 
people hiding among themselves, and what 
l"iould he have to do with it?' 

'Good-evening, Captain Arundel,' Paul March- 
msntsaid. '1 congratulate you on the change in 
your appearance since you were last in this place. 
You seem to have quite recovered the effects of 
that terrible railway accident.' 
"Edward Arundel drew himself up stiffly as the 
artist spoke to him. 

'We can not meet except as enemies, Mr. 
Marchmont,' he said. 'My cousin has no doubt 
told you what I said of you when I discovered 
the lying paragraph which you caused to be 
shown to my wife. 

'I only did what any one else would have done 
under the circumstances,' Paul Marchmont 
answered, quietly. 'I was deceived by some 
penny-a-liner's false report. How should I know 
the effect that report would have upon my un- 
happy cousin ?' 

'I can not discuss this matter with you,' cried 
Edward Arundel,' hiS voice tremulous with pas- 
sion; '1 am almost mad when I think of it. f am 
not safe; I dare not trust myself. I look upon 
you a3 the deliberate assassin of a helpless girl: 
but so skillful an assassin that nothing less thsn 
the vengeance of God can touch you. 1 cry aloud 
to Him night and day, in the hope that He will 
hear me and avenge my wife s death. I can not 
look to any earthly law for help; but 1 trust in 
God, I trust in God.' 

There are very few positive* and consistent 
atheists in this world. Mr. Paul Marchmont was 
a philosopher of the infidel school, a student of 
Voltaire and the brotherhood of the Encyclopedia. 
and a believer in those liberal days before the 
Reign of Terror, when Frenchmen in coffee- 
houses, discussed the Supreme- under the sobri- 
quet of Mons l'Etre; but he grew a little paler 
as Edward Arundel, with kindling eys and 
uplifted hand, declared his faith in a Divine 

The skeptical artist may have thought: 

'What if there should be some reaiity in the 
creed so many weak fools confide in? What if 
there is a God who can not abide iniquity?' 

'1 came here to look for you, Olivia,' Kdward 
Arundel said, presently. '1 want to ask you a 
question. Will you come into the wood" with 

'Yes, if you wish it,' Mrs. Marchmont an- 
swered, quietly. 

The cousins went out of the painting-room to- 
gether, leaving Paul Marchmont alone. They 
walked on for a few yards in silunce. 

•What is the question you came here to ask 
me?' Olivia asked, abruptly. 

'The Kemberli-ng people have raised a report 
about you which, I should fancy wou'd he scarcely 
agreeable to yourself. You would hardJj wish 

| to benefit by Mary Marchmont's death, would you, 

! Olivia?' 

• He looked at her searchingly as he gpolte. Her 

\ face was at all times so expressive of hidden 

Icare3, of cruel mental tortures, that there was 

| little room in her countenance for any new emo- 

i tion. Her cousin looked in vain for any change 

| in it now. 

! 'Benefit by her death!' she exclaimed. 'How 

i should I benefit by her death ?' 

i 'By marrying the man who inherits this estate. 

: They say you are going to marry Paul March- 

| mont.' 

Olivia looked at him with an expression of sur- 

'• prise. 

'Do they say that of me?' she asked. 'Do 

: people say that?' 

j 'They do. Is it true, Olivia?' 

: The widow turned upon him almost fiercely. 

1 'What does it matter to you whether it is true 

: or not? What do yon care whom I marry, or 
what becomes of me?' 

'I care this much,' Edward Arundel answered, 
' that I would not. have your reputation lied away 
by the gossips of Kemberling. T should despi?«; 
you if you. married this man. But if you do not 
mean to marry liim, you have no right to en- 
courage hi3 visit;; you are trifling with your own 
good name. You, should leave this place, and by 
that means givs the lie to any false reports that 
have arisen about you.' 

'Leave this place!' cried Olivia Marchmont, 
with a bitter launh. 'Leave this place ! Oh my 
God, if I could; if I could go away and bury 
my»e!f somewhere at the other end of the world, 
and forget — and forget!' She said this as if to 
herself; as if it was a cry of despair wrung from 
her in de«pite of herself; then, turninc; to Edward 
Arundel, sh?. said, in a quieter voice, T can never 
leave this place till I leave it in my coffin. I am 
a prisoner here for life.' 

She turned from him. End walked slo'vly away, 
with her face toward the djing sunlight in tie 
low western sky. 


edwap.d's visitors 

Perhaps no greater sacrifice had ever been 
made by sn EnpLsh than that which 
Edward Arundel willingly off' red upas an atone- 
ment for hi* broken trust, a* a tribu'o to his loot 
wife. Brave, ardent, jrcrierrn?, and sanp;ui >.c , 
this young soldi."" s.:w before him a brilliant 
career in the profession which ho loved. He .-aw 
ghry and distinction beckoning to him from af r, 
ind turnpdi his back upon tho=e shining; Sirens. 
HegavnupaU; in the vagllrt hope of, sooner or 
ater, arcnging Mary 's wrongs upon Paul March- 

He made no boast, even to himself, of that 
which he had done. Again and again memory 
brought back to him the day upon which he 
breakfasted in Oakley Street and walked across 
Watirico Bridge with the Dniry Lane supernu- 
merary. Every word that John Marchmont had 
spoken ; ever\ look of the meek and trusting eyes. 
tie pale and ihoughtful face; every pressure of 
the nun hand which had grasped his in grateful 
affection, in friendly confidence— came back to 
Edward Arundel after an interval of nearly tea 



years, and brought with them a bitter sense of j coming of each new record of that Indian war 


'He trusted his daughter to me,' the young 
man thought. 'Those last words in the poor fel- 
low's letter are always in my mind: 'The only- 
bequest which I can leave to the only friend 1 
have is the legacy of a child'* helplessness.' 

fare. He was like a devourer of romances, who 
reads a thrilling story link bv link, and who ii 
impatient for every new chapter of the fiction. 
Hi* dreams were of nothing but battle and victory, 
danger, triumph, and death; and he often woke 
'n the morning exhausted by the excitement ot 

And 1 have slighted his solemn warning: and J those visionary struggle-, those phantom terrors 

have been false to my trust.' "' ' ' ' L ~ - L: — : : - ' - 

In his scrupulous sense of honor, the soldier 
reproached himself as bitterly for that impru- 
dence, out of which so much evil had arisen, as 
another man might have done after a willful be- 
trayal of his trust. He could not forgive him- 
self. He was for ever and ever repeating in his 
own mind that one brief phrase which is the uni- 
versal chorui of erring men's regret: ' ]f I had 
acted differently, if 1 had done otherwise, this or 
that would not have come to pass.' We are per- 
petually wandering amidst the hopeless deviations 
of a maze, finding pitfalls and precipices, quick- 
Bands and morasses, at every turn in the painful 
way, and we look back at the end of our journey 
to discover a straight and pleasant roadway by 
which, had we been wise enough to choose it, we 
might have traveled safely and comfortably to 
our destination. 

His sabre hung over the chimney-piece in his 
simple bedchamber. He took it down some- 
times, and drew it. from the sheath. He could 
>->ave almost wept aloud over that idle sword. Ha 
raised his arm, and the weapon vibrated with a. 
whizzing noise as he swept the glittering steel in 
a wide circle through the empty air. An infidel's 
head should have been swept from his vile car* 
cass in that rapid circle of the keen-edged bladej 
The soldier's arm was as strong as ever, his wrist 
as supie, his muscular force unwasted by mental 
suffering. Thank Heaven for that. But after 
that brief thanksgiving his arm dropped inertly, 
and the idle sword fell oul of his relaxing grasp. 

'I seem a craven to thyself,' he cried; ' I have 
no right to be here — I have no right to be here 
while those other fellows are fighting for their 
lives out yonder. O God, have mercy upon me! 
My brain gets dazed sometimes; and 1 begin to 

But Wisdom waits for us at the goal instead o( wonder whether I am most bound to remain here 
accompanying us upon our journey. She is a and watch Paul Marchmont, or to go yonder and 
divinity whom we only meet very late in life: tight for my country and my Queen.' 
when we are too near the end of our troublesome j There were many phases in this mental fever, 
march to derive much profit from her coun-els i \t one time the young man was seized with a 
We can only retail them to our juniors, who, not j savage, jealousy of the officer who had succeeded 
getting them from the fountain-head, have ver\ ! to his captaincy He watched this man's name, 

Hid every record of hi* movements, arid was 
constantly taking objection to his conduct. He 
was tsrudingly envious ol this particular ( fficer's 
triumphs, however small He could not feel 
generously toward this happy successor, in the 
litter ness of I is own enforced idleness. 

'What opportunities llii- man hs«s ! bethought; 
•I never hail such chanci s.' 

It \- almost impossible for me to faithfully de- 
scribe the tortures which this monotonous exist- 
ence-inflicted upon the impetuous young man. It 
U the spn ciaity of a soldier's career lhat it unfits 
mo-tmen for any other 1 if". They can not throw 
off the old habitudes. They can not turn from 
the noisy stir of wanto the tame quiet of every- 
day l.fe; and even when they fancy themselves 
wearied a>,d worn-out, and willingly retire from 
•service, their souls are. stirred by every sound of 
the distant contest, as the war-steed is aroused 

small appreciation ol their value 

The young captain of E-ist Indian cavalry suf- 
fered very cruelly from the sacrifice which he 
had made. Day after day, day after day, the 
slow, dreary, changeless, eventless, and unbrokei 
life draarg d itself out; and nothing happened tr 
bring him anv nearer to the purpose, of this mo- 
noton us existence; no promise of even ultiruaU 
success rewarded his heroic self-devotion. Alar 
he heard of the rush and clamor of war, of dan- 
gers and terror, of conquest and g'ory. His own 
regiment was in the thick of the strife, his bro- 
thers in arms were doing wonders. Every moil 
brought some new record of triumph and glory 

The soldier's heart s'ekened as he read the 
story of each new encounter: his heart sickened 
'c-i'.h that terrible yearning — that yearning which 
seems physically palpable^ in A its perpetual pain; 

the jearning with which a child s>t ahaid school. .... .. 

Jying broad awake in the louse, gloomy, rush-lit 1 by the blast of the trumpet. But Kdward Arun- 
bedchamber in the dead of the si'lent 'r ij;ht. re del's career had been cut suddenly short at the 
members the soft resting-place of his mother's J very hour in which it was brightest with the 
bosom-, Vim ;,earnine with which a faithful bus- J promise of future glory. It was as if a torrent 
band far away from home sighs f-r the presence < rushing madly down k mountain-side had been 
of the wife he loves. Even with such a heart- ! dammed up, and ii? waters bidden to stagnate 
sickness as this Kdward Arundel pi<ied to be i upon a level plain. The rebellious waters boiled 
among the familiar faces, yonder in the East — to i and foamed in a sudden fury. The soldier could 
hear the triumphant yell of his men as ibey not submit himself contentedly to his fate. He 
swarmed fifier him Ihroufth the breach in an mult strip off his uniform, and accept sordid 
Afghan wall — to see the dark heathens blanch ? coin as the price of the epaulets he had won so 
undei the terror of Christian swords. \ deaily; but he was at heart a soldier still. When. 

He rend every record of the war again and he received the bank bilis which were the price 
again. ri;;iiu and again, till each scene arose he- j of his captaincy, it .seamed to him almost as if 
f.jfc him— a picture, fi-iming and lurid, grandly j he had sold his brother's blood 
be-nut'.il horribly snbl me." The ver\ w. rd.- oV j It was .s„rrm:er-Mne row. Ten months had 
the--. ,.owM>;.p.-r reioris seemed to blaze up.-n J elapsed since his marriage with Mary Marc li- 
the paper on which they were written, so palp-.- j monl, and no new Ijsht had be. n thrown upon 
bio were the images which they evoted .r. the the disappearance of his joun* wife No one 
soldier's mi„d. He was frantic in his eager .m- ! could feel a m«neti.» .^ " '"^ '»»«■ She 
patience for the arrival of every mail, for the had j^mhed m that Jonely river winch flowed 



behind Marehmont Towers, and far away down ( wrote. 'Come back to me, my dearest, boy. I 
to the sea. j g ave you up l> the service of your country, be- 

The artist bad kept his word, and had as yet < cause it was ray duty to resign you then. But I 
taken no step toward entering into possession of can not affjrd 10 lose you now; 1 can not bear 
the estate which he inherited by his cousin's! to see you sacrificing yourself to a chimera, 
death. But Mr. Paul Marehmont spent a grf-at > tieturn to me; and let me see .you make a new 
deal of time at the Towers, and a great "deal 'and happier choice. Let me see my son the father 
more time in the painting-room by the river- 5 of little children who wiJl gather round my knees 
tide, sometimes accompanied by his sister, -gom&- ; when 1 grow old and feeble..' 

times alone. 

The Kemberling gossips u-i: grown by no 
means less talkative upon the subject of Olivia, 
and the new owner of Marehmont Towers. On 
the contrary, the voices that discussed Mrs. 
Marchmont's conduct were a great deal more 
numerous than heretofore; in other words, John 
Marchmont's widow was 'taiked about.' Every 

'A new and happier choice!' Edward Arundel 
repeated the words with a melancholy biltcrrKSS. 
'No, tny poor lost gin; no, my blighted wife, I 
will not be. false to you. The smiles of happy 
women can have no sunlight for Ke while I 
cherish the memory of the sad eyes that watched 
uie wiirti 1 drove away Iroiu Milldale, the sweet 
sorrowful face that 1 was never to look upon 

thing is said in th >s phrase. It was scarcely that ' again. ' 

people.said bad things of her;' it was rather that ; The dull, empty days succeeded each other, 

they talked more about her than any woman can j arl d did resemble each other, with a wearisome 

suffer to be talked of with safely to her fair lame 
They began by saying that she waygoing to many j 
Paul Marehmont; they went on to winder ichetlur j 
ihe was gninz to marry him; then they wocdertd J 
why she didn't marry him. From this Ifiey j 
changed the venue, and began to wonder wlieiher j 
Paul Marehmont meant to marry her — there was > 
an essential difference in this wonde merit — and S 
next, why Paul Marehmont didn't marry her.) 
And by thi% time Olivia's reputation was over- 
shadowed by a terrible cloud, which had arisen, 
no bkger than a man's hand, in the first, conjec- 
turings of a few ignorant villagers. 

People made it their business first to wonder 
about Mrs. Marehmont, and then to set up thtir 
own theories about her; to which theories they 
clung with a stupid persistence, forgetting, as 
people generally do forget, that there might be 
some hidden clew, some secret key, to the widow's 

conduct, for want of which the cleverest reason- j 

ing respecting her was only io much groping in inence. 1 may be a better shot than you 

the dark j have only one pistol, and draw Jots for it. 

similitude that well-nigh exhausted the patienca 

of the impetuous young man. , His fiery nature 

chafed against this miserahie delay. It was so 

hard to have to wait for his Vengeance. Some^ 

Uov.s he. could scarcely refrain from planting 

himself somewhere in Paul Marchmont's way, 

with the idea of a hand-to-hand struggle in which 

either he or his enemy must perish. 

| Once he wrote the artist a desperate letter, de* 

> nouncing him as an arch-plotter and villain, call- 

) ing upon him, if his evil nature was redeemed by 

[one spark of manliness, to fight him as men had 

J neen in the habit of fighting only a few years be- 

j fore, with a hundred times less reason than these 

two men had for their quarrel. 

'1 have called you a villain and traitor; in India 
we fellows would killeech other fur smaller words 
than those,' wrote the soldier. 'But 1 have no 
wish to lake any advantage of my military expe- 

Let us 

Edward Arundel heard of the cloud which S fire at each olhe r across a dinner-table. Let us do 
shadowed his cousin's name. Her father heard | an y thing so that we bring this miserable business 
of it, and went to remonstrate with her, implor- ('° an en "- 

ing her to come to him at Swampington, and to Mr. Marehmont read this letter slowly and 
leave Marehmont Towers to the new lord of the thoughtfully, more than once; smiling as he read, 
mansion. But she only answered him with! 'He's getting tired,' thought the aitist. 'Poor 
gloomy, obstinate reiteration, and almost in the jyoung man, I thought he would be the first to 
same terms as she had answered Edward Arundel; grow tired of this sort of work.' 
declaring that she would stay at the Towers till He wrote Edward Arundel a long letter; a 
her death; that she would never leave the place friendly but rather facetious letter; such as he 
till she was carried thence in her coffin. might have written to a child who had asked hitn 

Hubert Arundel, always afraid of his daughter, to jump over the moon. He ridiculed the. idea 

was more than ever afraid of her now;' and he 
was as poweress to contend against her sullen 
determination, a3 he would have been to float up 
the stream of a rushing river. 
So Olivia was talked about. She had scared 

of a duel, as something utterly Quixotic and ab- 

'I am fifteen years older than you, my dear Mr. 
Arundel,' he wrote, 'and a great deal too old to 
away all visitors after the ball at the Towers by j h^ive any inclination to fight with windmills; or 
the slrangene-ss of her, manner and the settled to represent the wind-mill which a high-spirited 
gloom in her face; and she lived unvisited andfyoung Quixote may choose to mistake for a vil- 
alone in the gaunt stony mansion; and people j lainous knight, and run hishot bead against in that 
said th§t Paul Marehmont was almost perpetually '> delusion. I am not offended with you for calling 
with her, and that she went to meet him in the! me bad names, and I take your anger merely as a 
painting-room by the river. J kind of romantic manner you have of showing 

Edward Arundel sickened of his wearisome your love for my poor cousin. We'are not ene- 
life, and no one helped him to endure his suffer- jmies, and we never shall be enemies; for 1 will 
ings. His mother wrote to him, imploring him! never suffer myself to beso foolish as to gel into 
to resign himself to the loss of his young wife,! a passion with a brave and generous-hearted 
to return to Dangerfield, to begin a new exist- young soldier, whose only error is an unfortunate 
ence, and to blot out the memory of the past. hallucination with regard to 

'You have done all that the most devoted affec- «Your very humble servant 

tion could prompt you to do,' Mrs. Arundel < 'Pavu M*RCHMOjfr.* 



'I'm sure I'm very sorry for you, Mr. Arundel,' 

the surgeon said, looking, not at Edward, but 

bout and around him, in' a hopeless, wanderirg 

-manner, like some hunted animal that looks ft r 

ai.d near for a m<-ans of escape from his pursuer 

— 'I'm very sorry for you — and for all your irou- 

ble — and 1 was when I attended y hi at the lliaok 

BuM — and you were the first paiient I evirhad 

(here— snd it Jt<i to --.v- nuving oiarn l.i're — at I 

uY 'at— though shstt's nriiher liere nor i:." ; .-i;.. 

\\id J 'rn very sorry foryou, and for the pnoryoung 

j -.oman too— particularly for the poor young wo- 

< :nan — and 1 always tell PhuIso — and — and Paul — ' 

j And at this juncture liv. Weston stoprtd il- 

; ruptly, as if appalled at the hopeless entanglc- 

i ment of hi.» own id. -as, and wi.h a brief 'Go6d 

(evening. Mr. Arundel,' shot off in ihe direction 

of the Towers, leaving Edward at a loss to wndei- 

. . .. i , • _ ... trt v . . . l : _ - • i _. .. .. 

Edward ground his teeth with savage fury as he 
read this letter. 

'Is i here no making this man answer for his in- 
famy ?' he muttered. 'Js there no way of making 
hm suffer?' 

June was nearly over, and the year was we: r- 
in.T round to the anniversary of Edward's wed- 
di, the anniver*n> ies of Uce bright da',3 
w i • i ; iL* _i ouri:; briut and b t -i«'.~;,i. ji.mliau i ji'ejvd (' 
a>v >y by t ! jf trout-streams in the ilampshi-e mea- ( 
do '*, when some most unlooked-for visiter.- j 
muds their appearance at Kembrrljr.g Retreat. 

The cotrugr lay bu-k l.e.hjrd 9 peasant garden, 
and was fcirldrn i'i >';i ;he du<viy high road hy ,i 
hedge of lilacs aod laburnums which grew within 
the wooden fence. It was Edward's Imbit, in this 
hot summer-time, to spend a great deal of his time 

in Ihe garden; walking up and down the neglected 'stand his manner. So, on I Ms mic" -summer eve 
paths with a cigar in his mouth; or lolling in an ring, the soldier walked up and down ihe neg- 
easy-chair on the lawn reading the papers." Per- J lecteri grass-plot, thinking of the men who had 
haps the garden was almost prettier, hy reason of J been his comrades, aud of the career which he hsd 
the long neglect which it had suffered, than it j abandoned for 1 lie love of his lost wife. He was 
would have been i"f kept in the trimmest order-by j aroused from his gloomy reverie by thesound of a 
the industrious hands of a skilful gardener. Every (fresh girlish voice calling to him by his name, 
thing grew in a wild and wanton luxuriance, that < 'Edward ! Edward !' 

was very beautiful in this summer-time, when the ( Who could there be in Lincolnshire, in the name 
earth was gorgeous with all manner of blossoms. ( of all that is miraculous, with the right to call to 
Trailing branches from the espaliered apple-trees ( him thus by his Christian name.' /Te was not 
hung across the pathways, intermingled with (long left in doubt. While he was astjLHg himself 
roses that had run wild; and made bits that a ( the question, the same feminine voice crie,d out 
landscape-painter might have delighted to copy, (again 

Even the weeds, which a gardener would have ( 'Edward! Edward! Will you come and open 
looked upon in horror, were beautiful. The wild (the gate for me, please? Or do you mean to keep 
convolvulus flung its tendrils intf> fantastic wreaths \ me out here forever?' 

and wild festoons about the bushes of sweet-brier; < This time Mr. Arundel had no difficulty in rec- 
the honey-suckle, untutored by the pi uning-knife, ( ognizing the familiar tones of his sister Letitia, 
mixed its tall branches with seringa and clematis; (whom he had believed, until that moment, to be 
the jasmine that crept about the house had mount- < safe under the maternal wing at Dangerfield. — 
ed to the very chimney-pots, and strayed in through ( And lo ! here shs was, on horseback at his own 
the open windows; even the stable-roof was half ( gate, with a cavalier hat and feathers overshadow - 
hidden by hardy monthly roses that had c'ambered ( ing her girlish face, and with another young Ama- 
up to the thatch. But the young soldier took very ( zon on a thorough-bred chestnut, and a groom on 
little interest in this disorderly garden. He pined (a thorough-bred bay in the back-ground. 
to be far away in the thick jungle, or on the \ Edward Arundel, utterly confounded by the ad- 
burning plain. He hated the quiet and repose of j vent of such visitors, flung away his cigar, and 
an existence which seemed little better than the j went to the low wooden gate beyond which his 
living death of a cloister. (sister's steed was pawing the dusty road, impatient 

The sun was low in the west at the close of a '. of this stupid delay, and eager to be cantering sta- 
long mid-summer day when Mr. Arundel strolled ( bleward through the scented summer air. 
up and down the neglected pathways, backward J 'Why, Letitia !' cried the young man, 'what, in 
and forward amidst the long tangled grass of the j mercy's name, has brought you here ?' 
lawn, smoking a cigar, and brooding over his sor- ( Miss Arundel laughed aloud at her brother's 
rows. ' (look of surprise. 

He was beginning to despair. He had defied \ 'You didn't know I was in Lincolnshire, did 
Paul Marchmont, and no good bad come of his (you ?' she asked; and then answered her own ques- 
defiance. He had watched him, and there had J tion in the same breath: -Of course you didn't, 
been no result of his watching. Day after day he (because I wouldn't let njamroa tell you 1 was 
had wandered down to the lonely pathway by the (coming; for I wanted to surprise you, you know, 
river-side; again and again he had reconnoitred > And I think I have surpri'ed you, haven't I ? I 
the boat-house, only to hear Paul Marchmontl never saw such a scared-looking creature in all 
treble voice singing scraps out of modern operas my life. If I were a ghost coming here in the 
as he worked at his easel; or on one or two occa- gloaming, you couldn't look more frightened lhan 
sions to see Mr. George Weston, the surgeon, or you did just now. I only came the day befnre 
Lavinia his wife, emerge from the artist s paint- jyestesday, and I'm staying at Major Lawfc-rd's, 
ing room. j twelve miles away from here; and this is Miss 

Upon one of these occasions Edward Arundel ! Lawford, who was at school with me at Bath. — 
had accosted the surgeon of Kemberling, and had j You've heard me talk of Belinda Lawford, my 
tried to enter into conversation with him. But dearest, dearest friend ? Mif-s Lawford. my bro- 
Mr. Weston had exhibited such utterly hopeless ther; my brother, Miss Lawford. Are you going 
stupidity, mingled with a very evident terror of; to open the gate and lei .us in, or do you mean to 
his brother-in-law's foe, that Edward bad been j keep your citadel closed upon us altogether, Mr. 
fain to abandon all hope of any assistance from; Edward Arundel?' ... 

this quarter. 

At this juncture the young lady in the back- 


__ oddrewaiiule nearer to her friend, and' mur- awful importance which actions, in themselves 
mured a remonstrance to thr. effect that it warmest trivial, fe^jne by reason of their eonse- 
«rj late, and that they were expected home be- : : 0'icnoes; and whew the action, in itself so u.iira- 
fcr«dark; _uut r.-iias Ar^iu-fi rciuiod to boa., the : portant, in its consequences so fatal, bs's beeif 
roiceof wLrlcm. ; ic ai ,j v/gv , a r lt- viartion from the right, how bit- 

'Why, we've oniy an hour's ride back,' she ' terlv we reproach ourselves for that false step ! 
cried; 'and if it should be dark, which I don't i 'fain bo %to:i to s> e von. 'Ibwnrd !' Miss Arun- 
tiinkit v.-ii' Ss, for it's scarcely dark r.i! ni- he • cci,< ♦-.claimed. ;<s she Sucked about hei . criticiV 
through at ;n:s time of year, we've pot Hoskins '■ in.?: her biutli'.rs domain; 'but you don't ?t'<-m a 
with us, «nd Hosiuns wili taker.areof us. V\ on 't ' bit ' gitd >.o see me, you poor f.i'oomy old denr. 
jou, Hoskins?' demanded the >our; ; ; !adv, turn-' Ar.d ho'.v much be hit yon look than you did 
inglo the groom wiir, a most insinuaiitigsntile. ' wn.-n von bit l)ang( rfieiri ! only a litl.e caie- 
Of course Hoskins declared lliat he n us rcariy \ * orn. \«a fnow. stii.'. And to think of jolt 
to achieve all that man could «l., or dare in llii- ■ comin^und burying jourr-eif here, a way from aii 
defense of his liege ladies, or serneihini p t-ttv \ ihe ^eopie who love you, you silly old darling ! 
nearly 10 that effect, but delivered in-a vile \nd Uclinda knows ihe sloiy ai d she s so Sony 
cnlnshiie patois not easily rendered in printer's ; ■ ior you. Am'i y>'U, Linda : I call her Lindu-for 
ink. , ^-.i.ort. and because it's piettier ilian LV-Iir-da,' 

Miss Arundel waited for no further discirsion. ' added ihe young hidy aside to her tno her, and 
hit save her hard *o her brother, arid vaulted \ v. im a cent. tnp^Ui'U- em| basis upon tltfi fir-t syl- 
lyhtly from her saddle. . ' ; [able ol h<r friend's name. 

Then, of course, Edward Arundel offered his ' Miss La«fod. thus abruptly appealed to., 
services to his s,ster"s companion, and then f r ; blu-died, and >aid noili^ng. ■ 

the first timehe looked in Be/itida Lswf.rd's face, < t ll'Kdv. ard Arundel had been told that any 
and even in that one first glance saw that she was; other yung 1-dy was acquainted wilh Ihe sad 
a good and beautiful creature, and that her hair, ; : i-tory of his married ii'fe, 1 think he would have 
of which she had a. great quantify, was of the J been inclined to revo.t against the very idea of 
color of her horse's chestnut coat; that her eyes; her pity. But although lie bad only looked once 
were I he bluest he had ever seen, and that her' ;•.!, Belinda Lawford, that one lock seemed to 
cheeks were, like the neglected roses in his ;:ar- ' hive iold him a great dtal. He felt instinctively 
den. He held out his band to her. Ehe took it ; that she' wr<.a as good as she was beautiful, and 
with a frank smile, and dismounted, an.d came in \ that her pity musi be a most genuine and tender 
among the grass-grown pathways, ami'dst the con- ; emotion, not to be despised .by ihe proudest man 
fusion of trailing branches and bright garden- 'upon earth. 

flowers growing wrid. ; The two ladies seated themselves upon a di- 

lapidated rustic seat amidst the long grass, and 
In that moment began 1he second volume off Mr. Arundel sat in the low basket-chair in which 
Edward Arundel's life. The first volume had; he was wont to lounge s. great deal of his time 
begiw upon the Christmas night on which the J away. 

boy of seventeen went to see the pantomime at' 'Why don't you have a gardener, Ned ?' Letitia 
Drury Lane Theatre. The old story had been a. f Arundel asked, after looking rather contemptu- 
long, sad story, fuil of tenderness and pathos, ', ously at the flowery luxuriance around her. 
but with a cruel and dismal ending. The new' Her brother shrugged his shoulders with a des- 
story began to-night, in this fading western sun- J pondent gesture. 

shine, in this atmosphere of balmy perfume,; 'Why should I take any en re of Che place?' he 
amidst these dew-laden garden-flowers growing ', said. ■ '1 only took it because it was near the spot 
wild. J where — where my poor girl — where I wanted to 

J i:a. 1 have no object in beautifying it. 1 wish to 
But, as I think I observed before at the outset { Heaven 1 cou'.d leave it aiTd go back to Jndia.' 
of this story, we are rarely ourselves aware of J He turned his face eastward as he spoke, and 
the commencement of any new aection in our ', the two girls saw that half-eager, half-despainng 
lives. We look back afterw.ard, and wonder to ] yearning that was always visible in his face when 
see upon what an insignificant incident the fate of The looked to the east. It was over yonder, the 
after-years depended. {scene of strife, the red field of glory, only sepa- 

'If I had gone down Piccadilly instead of tak-' rated from him by a patch of purple ocean, and a 
ing a short cut across the Green Park the day ! ; strip of yellow sand, it was yonder. He could 
walked from Brompton to Charing Cross, I J almost feel the hot blast of the burning air. He 
should not have met the woman I adore, ami who i could almost hear the shouts of victory. And he 
has hen-pecked me so cruelly for the last fifteen } was a pri-oner here, bound by a, sacred duty— by 
years,' says Brown. i a duty which he awed to the dead. 

'If i had not invited Lord Claude Fitz Tudor I 'Major Lawford — Major Lawford is Belinda's 
to dinner, with a view to mortifying Robinson of ! papa; 33d Foot — Major Lawford knew that we 
the War-Office by the exhibition of an ari=to- were coming here, and he begged me to ask you 
cratic acquaintance, that wiet'ebed story of do- to dinner; bit I said you wouldn't come, for i 

mestic shame and horror might never have gone knew you had shut yourself out of all society 

the round ot the papers; Sir Cresswell Cressweil i though the Major's the dearest creature, and the. 
might never have been called on to decide upon j Grange is a most delighlfut place to stay at. J 
a case in which I was the petitioner; and a mis- was down here in the mid-summer holidays once 
erable woman, now dragging out a blighted life in you know, while you were in India. But I give 
atawdiy lodging at Dieppe might still be a pure the message' as the Major gave it to me; and 
English matron a proud and happy mother! 'says you're to come to dinner whenever you like.' 
Jones, whose wife ran away from him with the Edward Arundel murmured a few polite words 
younger son of a duke. of refusal. No; he saw no society; he was in 

It is only after the fact that we wcoguize the J Lincolnshire to achieve a certain object- he 



there no longer than was neces-f Indian war, while the two girls roamed about t! 1 ' 

(garden among the rosea and butterflies, tearii ' 

should remain 

isry iu order for him to do so. „ 

'And you don't even say that you're glad to see '' ( the skirts of their riding-habits every now ar 
me, ' exclaimed Miss Arundel, wii 
sir, 'though it's six months since 
at Dangerfield ! Upon my word 
brother for an unfortunate giri to 
fecttons upon'" 

Edward smiled faintly at his 

an offended 5 then among the briers s.nd gooseberry bu-hes. !i 
•you were last; was scarcely strange after this visit that Edwai-' 
you're a nice; Arundel should consent to accept Major Lav' 

_*._ !..-.», «. t" / &n wA '*■ !«»rtti-iili(-iri (rt v. ^ m» «a How tY\r* riinincr *i t t\\', 

waste her at 
lister's com- 

(ford's invitation to name a day for dining at th 
Grange; he could not with- a very good grac ; 
' have refu«ed. And yet — and yet — it seemed t 
hi.ii almost a treason against his lost love, hi : 

'1 am very glad to see you, Letitia.'he said; \ pour pensive Mary— whose face, with the ver 
•very, very glad.' (look it had worn upon that last day, was eve 

Ai.d indeed the young hermit could not but ] present with him— to mix with happy people win 
confess to himself that those two innocent younsj j had never known sorrow. But he went to ihs 
faces seemed to bnng light and brightness with < Grange, nevertheless, and grew more and mon' 
them, ami to shed a ecrl.jii transitory glimmer J iriridiy with the Major, and «a!ked in the gar- 
of sunshine upon the liorntne gloom of ins iiie. ', dens- 1 -* Inch were very large and old-fashioned : 
Mr. Morrison hud come out to offer h'S duty to (but most beautifully kept— with his sister and! 
the >uuni tatlj — whom he had been intimate with \ Belinda Lawford; with Belinda Lawful d who' 
from a vety eaily period at tier exi-tet.iee, ami; knew his story and was sorry f->r him. He si-' 
iiU'i carried upjn In- slunider s nue iiiiceu years ', ways rememheied that, as h«- looked at her bright 
beiore — under the of bring. ng wine for ? fare, wtiose vaning expression gave pcpetuali 
tne visit'Ji'r; ami the alable-ijd had b.-cii sent tu a J evidence of u compassionate and sympathetic 
distant corner .jf tne gaineu to search for straw- ( nature. 

berries for l'ieir refreshment Even the solitary ( 'if my poor darling had liad this girl for a 
maid-servant had crept into the parlor fronting ) friend,' he ih ught, sometimes, 'how much hap- 
the lawn, and had shrouded herself behind the { pier she might nave heen !' 

witidow-curliiins, wnenee »ne could peep out alj 1 dare say theie -have been many lovelier wo- 
the t>vo Amazuiis, and gladden her ejes with the {men in this world than Belinda Lawford; many 
sight of something (hat was young and beautiful. J women whose faces, considered artt-tical y, came 

Bit the young ladies would not stop to unrik ( nearer pei fection; many no-es moie exquisitely 
any wine, though .VI r. Morrison informed Letitia (chiseled, ajid scores of mouths bearing a clo-er 
that'the atieir) was from the Dangerfield cellar, f affinity to Cupid's bow; but i duubt if any face 
and had been sent to .Master Edward by his Ma; £ wa< ever more pleasant to look uuon than the 
nor 1 to eat any st> awbernes, though the stab. e- J face of this blooming English maiden. She had 
boy, vvho made the air odorous with the scent oi ( a beauty that is sometimes wanting in perfect 
hay and oats, brought a little heap of freshly- j faces, and lacking which the most splendid lore- 
gathered fruit piled upon a cabbage-leaf, and sur- ( liness will pall at last upon eyes that have grown 
mounted by a rampant caterpillar of the woolH < weary of admiring; she had a charm for want of 
species. They couid not stay any longer, they \ which the most rigidly classic profiles, the most 
both declared, lest there should be terror at Law- £ exquisitely statuesque fares, have seemed colder 
fori Grange because of their absence. So the) £ and harder than the marble it was their highest 
went hack to the gate, escorted by Edward and^ merit to resemble. She had the beauty of good- 
bis' confidential servant, and after Letit.a had ' t nes<, and to admire her was to do homage to the 
riren her brother a kiss, which resounded almost' purest and highest attributes of womanhood. It 
like the report of a pistol through the still even-J was not only that her pretty little nose was 
in* air, the two ladies mounted their horses, and ( straight and well-shaped, that her lips were rosy 
cantered away in the twilight. \ red, that her eyes were bluer than the summer 

'I shall come and see you again, Ned,' Miss > heavens, and her chestnut hair tinged with the 
Arundel cried, as she shook the reins upon her J golden light of a. setting sun; above and beyond 
horse's neck; 'and so will Belinda — won't you, • such commonplace beauties as these, the beau- 
Belinda?' '.ties of tenderness, truth, faith, earnestness, hope, 

Miss Lawford's reply, if she spoke at all, was! and charity, were enthroned upon her broad white 
quite inaudible amidst the clattering of the horses 'J brow, and crowned her queen by right divine of 
hoofs upon the hard high-road. (womanly perfection. A loving and devoted 

(daughter, an affectionate sister, a trite and faith- 

' ful friend, an untiring benefactress to the poor, a 

*** (gentle mistress, a well-bred Christian lady; in 

) every duty and in every position she bore out and 

CHAPTER XXVII. > sustained the! impression which her beauty made 

\ on the minds of those who looked upon her. She 
ohk more sacrifice. ) was on ly nineteen years of age, and no sorrow 

Letith Arundel kept her word, and came j had ever altered the brightness of her nature. 
very olten to Eemberling Retreat; sometimes on < She lived a happy life with a father who was 
horseback, sometimes in a little pony-carriage; < proud of her, and with a mother who resembled 
sometimes accompanied by Belinda Lawlord, j her in almost erery attribute. She led a happy 
sometimes accompanied by a younger sister of but a busy life, and did her duty to the poor about 
Belinda's, as chestnut-haired and blue-eyed as her as scrupulously as even Olivia had done in 
Belinda herself, but at the rxhool-room and the old days at Swampington Rectory; but in 
hread-and-butter period of life, and not particu- such a genial and cheerful spirit as to win, not 
lirlv interesting. Major Lawford came one day cold thankfulness, but heart-telt lore and dero- 
witn his dauber and her friend, and Kdward lion , from all who .partook .of her benefit, 

a .hi hoif „,v officer walked together up and Upon the Egyptian darkness of Edward Aran- 

d£ito ^ & the « d6i ' S ^ thU *"' ar ° Se M * Star ' aDd by - 8nd - by 



Withe horizon brightened under her influence, 
the soldier had been very little in the society of 
Ijmen. His mother, his sister Letiiia, his cousin 
fli via, and John Marchraont's gentle daughter, 
frerethe only women whom he had ever known 
in the familiar freedom of domestic intercourse; 
iod he trusted himself in the presence of this 
Uiutiful and noble-minded girl in utter ignorance 
of any danger to his own peace of mind. He 
wffered himself to be happy at Lawford Grange; 
»nd in those quiet hours which he spent there he 
put away his old life, and forgot the stern pur- 
pose that alchie held him a prisoner in England. 
'But when he went back to his lonely dwelling- 
place he reproached himself bitterly for that 
which he considered a treason against his love. 

'What right'have .1- to be happy among these 
people?' he thought; ' what right have I to take 
life easily, even for an hour, while my darling 
lies in her unhallowed grave, 'and the manwlo 
drove her to her death remains unpunished? I 
will never go to Lawford Grange again.' 

It seemed, however, as if every body, except 
Belinda, was in a piot against this idle, soldier: 
for sometimes Letitia coaxed him to ride back 
with her after one of her visits to Kemberling 
Retreat, and very often the major himself in- 
listed, in a hearty military fashion, upon the 
young man's taking the empty seat in his dog- 
cart, to be driven over to the Grange. Edward 
Arundel had never once mentioned Mary's naiue 
to any m mber of this hospitable and'friendlj 
family. They were very good to him, and wen 
prepared, he knew, to sympathize with him; bu> 
he could not bring himself to talk of his los' 
wife. The thought df that rash and desnerat 
act, which had ended her short life was too cruel 
to him. ~He would not speak of her. because lie 
would have had to pl»-ad excuses for that, oik 
juiltv act; and her image to him was so stainles> 
and pure that he could not bear to plead for h< i 
as for a sinner who had need of men's pity rati.ei 
than a claim to their reverence. 

'Her life had been so sinless,' he cried, some 
times; 'and to think that it should have t ndec 1 
in sin! If I could forgive Paul Marchmont for 
all the rest, if I could forgive him for my loss ol 
her, I would never forgive him for that.' 
P|The. young widower kept silence, therefoie. 
Upon the subject which occupied so large a shan 
of his thoughts, which was every d *y and ever' 
flight the theme of h s most earnest prayer*; ami 
Miry's name was never j-poken in his presenci 
at Lawford Grange. 

But in Edyraid Arundel's absence the two girl: 
sometimes talked of thi< sad storv. 

'Do you really think, Letitia. that your 
brother's wife committed suicide?' Belinda 
asked her friend. 

_ 'Oh, as for that, there can't be any doubt about 
it dear,' answered Miss Arundel, who was of a 
lively, not to say a flippant disposition, and had 
no very great reverence for solemn things; 'the 
poor dear creature drowned herself. I think she 
mu3t have heen a little wrong in her head. 1 do'>'t 
»ay so to Edward, you know: at least, 1 did say 
»o once when he was at Dangerlieid. and he Mew 
into an awful passion, and called me. hard-hearted 
and crtiel, and all sorts of shocking things; so o 
course I've m-vcr said so since. Hut really, th 
poor dear ihinir's goings-on we're so cccen'irie: 
first she ran away from her step-mother, am 
went and hid herself in a •horrid lodging'; ano 
then she married Edward at a nasty church in- 

Lambeth, without so much as a wedding-dress, or 
a creature to give her away, or a rake, or card*, 
or any thing Christian -like; and then she ) an 
away again; and as her father had been a fcuper— 
what's it's name? a man who carries banners in 
pantomimes, and.all that— 1 dare, say she'd seen 
Mr. Macready as Hamlet, snd had Ophelia's 
death in her head when she ran down to the 
river-sido and diowned herself. I'm sure it's a 
verv sad story; and of couise I'm awfully sorry 
for Edward.' 

The young lady said no more than this; but 
Belinda brooded over the story of that early mar- 
riage — the stolen honey-moon, the sudden part- 
ing. How dearly they must have loved each 
other, the young bride and bridegroom, absorbed 
in their own happiness, and forgetful of all the 
outer world*! She pictured Edward Arundel's 
face as it must have been before care and sorrow 
had blotted out the brightest attribute of his 
beauty. She thought of him, and pitied him, 
with such tender sympathy, that by-and-by the 
thought of this young man's sorrow seemed to 
^hut ajmnst every idea completely out of her 
mind. She went about ali her dutiss still, cheer- 
fully and pleasantly, as it was her nature to do 
every thing; but the zest with which she had per- 
formed each loving office, each act of sweet 
benevolence, seemed lost to her now. 

Remember that she was a simple country dam- 
sel, leading a quiet life, whose peacelul course 
vas almost as calm and unevent!e>-9 as the exist- 
nc« of a cloister; a life so quiet that a decently- 
written romance from the Swamping^pn book- 
club was a thing to be looked forward to with 
impaiience, to read with breathless excitement, 
jnd to brood upon afterward for months Wis 
it strange, then, that this romance in leal tile, 
r h is sweet story of love and devotion, with ils 
ad climax — this story, the srene of which lf.y 
vilhiu a few miles of her home, the heio of 
>hich was her father's con-tant guest — was it 
-trange that this stc ry, whose sadocst charm » ; g 
is truth, should make a s-trong impression upin 
the raind ol an innocent and unworldly nonian, 
tnd that day by day and hour by hour she should, 
ad uucon-cioiish to I er*-e f feel a stronger intei- 
•rst in t he hero of the tile? 

s-he was in'ere>ttd in him. Ahis! the truth 
nti*t be set down, even if it has to ,he in tie 
■ lain old commonplace words She fell in lite 
vilh kim. But Inve in this innocent and womanly 
■mil/re wus so d [Termt a sentiment to that winch 
i ad raged in Olivia 's stormy hi east lhal even she 
vho felt it wa« uiironsei. us of its gradual birth. 
it was not 'an Adam at. its,' by-the.-by. Jt 
lid n"t lean, Minerva-like, from the brain; for I 
ielicv.e th:.!. love is bom of the brain often* r than 
of the heart, being a strange coir. pound of fancy 
and folly ideali'y, vend alion, aid) delusnn. It 
cam? rather like ihe gradual dawning of a-. sum- 
mer's morning — first a litlle patch of light-, far 
away in the east, very faint and feeble; then a 
slow" widening of the rosy brightness; and at last 
a great blaze, of splendor over all the widih of 
the vast heavens. And then Miss Lawford grew 
more reserved in her infercourse with her friend's 
orother. Her frank g-oi d nature gave place to a 
'imid, shrinking ba«hfu'ne<.s that made her ten 
imts riiuie fascinating than she had be>Ti before. 
She was so very young, and had mixed so litt'e 

iih the world, that she had jet to learn the 
■omedy of life. She had yet to learn to smile 
when she was sorry, or to look sorrowful when 


she was pleased, as prudence might dictate; to J into the gloomy solitude of La Trappe. And 
Mush at will, or to grow pale when it was politic \yet what was it that he had lost, after all? A 
to snort the lily tint She'was a natural, artless, / quiet dinner at a country-house, and an evening 
spoiilane-juscrealure; and she was utterly power- \ spent half in the leafy silence of an old-fashioned 
!o5s lo conceal her emotions, cr to pretend a/ garden, half in a pleasant drawing-room among 
H;:ilir>!fiit she did not feel. She ^blusb.ed rosy 'a group of'well-bred girls, and only enlivened 
red when Edward Arundel spoke to her suddenly. / by simple English ballads or pensive melodies by 
She betrayed herself by a hundred signs; mutely / M<-ndelssohn. It was not much to forego, surely, 
confessed her love almost as artlessly .as Wary \ And yet Edward Arundel felt, in sacrificing these 
had revealed her affection a twelvemonth before. /new acquaintance, at the Grange to the stern pur- 
But if Edward saw this he gave no sign of having / pose of his life, almost as if he had resigned a 
made the discovery. His voice, perhaps, grew a /second captaincy for Mary's salse. 
little lower and softer in its tone spoke / 

to Belinda; but there was a sad cadence in that/ __ _-* s <> 

low voice which was too mournful for the accent'/ 

^f a. lover. Sometimes, when his eyes rested for \ ■ DKT ™i> -vwnr 

a moment on the girl's blushing face, a shadow / CHAPTER AAVlil. 

would darken his own, and a faitit quiver of^ THE CUII , D , TO ice in the pavilion by ihe 
emotion stir his lower lip; but it is impossible to / 
say what this emotion may have been. Belinda/ 

hoped nothing, expected nothing. I repeat that/ The year were slowly on. Letitia Arundel 
she was unconscious of the nature of her own /wrote very long letters to her friend and confi- 
feeling; and she had never fpr a moment thought /dante, Belinda Lawford, and in each letter de- 
of Edward otherwise than as a man who would / manded particular intelligence of her brother's 
£0 to his grave faithful to that sad love-story (doings. Had he been to the Grange? how had 
-which had blighted the promise of his youth. { he looked ? what had he talked about? etc. etc. 
She never thought of him otherwise than as j But to these questions Miss Lawford could only 
Mary's constant mourner; she never hoped that return one monotonous reply: Mr. Arundel had 
time would alter his feeling3 or wear out hi.<.l not been io the Grange; or Mr. Arundel had 
constancy; yet she loved him, notwithstanding, jj called on pspa one morning, but had only staid a 
All Ihrou&h July and August the young man' quarter of an hour, and had not been seen by any 
visited at the ^Grange, and at the beginning of; female member of the family. 

September Letitia Arundel went back to Dan 
gerfield. , But even then Kdward was still a fre- 
quent guest at Major Lawford 's, for his enthusiasm 
upon all military mutters had made him a ven 

The year woivs slowly on. Edward endured 
j his self-appointed solitude, and. wailed, waited, 
{ with a vengeful hatred forever brooding in his 
breast, for the day of retribution. The year 

great favorite with the old officer. But toward* Wore on, and the anniversary of the day uTpun 
the"end of September Mr. Arundel's visits sud-j which Mary ran away from the Towers, the 17th 
denly were restricted to an occasional call upon ) of October, came at last. 

the Major; he left off dining\at the Grange; his ( Paul Marchmont had declared his intention of 
evening rambles in Ihe garden with Mrs. Law- i taking possession of the Towers upon the day 
fold and her blooming daughters — Belinda had j following this. Th& twelvemonth's probation 
no less than four blue-eyed sisters, all more or j which he had imposed upon himself had expired; 
less resembling herself — ceased altogether, to the j every voice was loud in praise of his conccien- 
wonderment of every one in the old-fashioner' > ious and honorable conduct. He had grown 
country-house. ! ery popular, durin;; his residence al Kembprling. 

Kdwa,rd Arundel shut out the new light Whic'' } 'enant farmers lo> ked forward to halcyon days 
had dawned 'noon his life and withdrew into tin \ der his dominion; to leases renewed on favor- 
darknes*. He went back lo the stagnant mo \ ble terms; to repairs liberally ex>cnted; to every 
notony, the hopeless despondency, the bitter re ) iing that is delightful between landloid and 
grei, of his old existence. ] -nant. Kd.ward Arundel heard, al! tins thiouih 

'.While my sis er was at the Grange I had ai i is faithful servitor, Mr. Morrison, and chad d 
excuse for.g ing there,' he said to himself, sternh \ utterly at the news. This in-itor was lo be 
'I have no excuse now ' ',_ >appy and prosperous, and to have the good word 

But the i. Id monotonous life was somehow oi / if honest men j-.^ hie Mary Say in her unhai- 
othfir a great de-d moi-.- difficult to bear than v '> ' .wed gr-ive, and people shrugged their shoulders, 
had been before. Nothing 1 seemed to inters-.- / : = I f compassionately, half contemptuously, as 
the young man now. Even the records of India. l , ney spoke of the mad iitiiess who had committed 
victories were 'flat, stale, ami unprolitab e.' H ) ,uieide. 

wondered at the remembrance with what eagt- '> Mr. Morrison brought his master tidings of all 
impatience he had once pined fur the coming ot / Paul Maichmont's doings about, this time. He 1 
(he newspapers, with what frantic haste he bad ' was to take possession of the Towers on the 19th. 
devoured every syllable of the Indian news. Al ? He had already made several alteration" in the 
his old feelings seemed to have gone away, leav- '/ a> rangefrient of the different rooms. He had 
ing nothing in his mind but a blank waste, a / ordered new furniture from Swampington — 
wearv sickness of life and all belonging to it. i another man would have ordeied it from London; 
I leaving nothing else — positively nothing? 'No!'' but Mr. Marchmont v. as bent upon being popular, 
he answerd, in reply to the^,e mute questions of > and did not despise even the good:opiiiion of a 
n is own spirit — 'no.' he repeated doggedly, 'nolh- \ local tradesman — and by ce.veral other aeti, in- 
ing.' 'significant enough in 'themseives, had asserted 

it was strange to find what a blank was left in '} his Ownership of the mansion which had been 
his life by reason of his abandonment of the j the airy castle of Mary Marchmont 's day-dreams 
Grange. It seemed as if he had suddenly retired) ten years before, 
from an existence full of pleasure and delight; The coming in of the new master of March- 


mont Towers was to be, take it altogether, a>Towers. It was a lucky September moaning that 
tvery grand affair. The Chorley Castle fox- 'swept that bfighWaced boy out of my pathway, 
hounds were to meet, at eleven o'clock, upon ; and left only sickly John Marchmont and his 
the great grass-plot, or lawn, as it wa3 popularly ; daughter between me and fortune.' •: _ 
-called, before the western front. The country/ Yes; Mr. Paul Marchmout's year of probation 
gentry* from far and near hfid been invited to a ''was past. lie had asserted himself to Messrs. 
funting-;breaki'ast. Open house was to be kept ; Paulette, Paulette, and Mathewson, and before 
all day for rich and poor. Every male .inhabit- : the face of all Lincolnshire, in the character of 
ant of the district who could muster any tiling an honorahle and high-minded man; slow to seine 
in the way of a mount irai likely ts join tlie.'- upon the fortune that had fallen to him, conscien- 
friendly gathering;. Poor Reynard it decidedly ' lions, punctilious,- generous, ami unselfish. He 
England's most powerful leveier. All differences '/ had dyne all ibis; and now the trial was over, and 
of rank and station, all distinctions which Mam- 'the dav of triumph h;\d come: 
uion raises in every other quarter, ihclt away he-f There has been a race of villains of late years 
fore the friendly contact of the hun tin j-fi«ld ."Tije 5 vtrv popular with the novel-writer and the drain- 
man who rides best is the best man; and the youn? ;atist, tut not, I think, quite indigenous to this 
butcher, who makes light of sunk fences, and 'honest British soil; a race of pale-faced, dark- 
ikims, bird-like, over bullfinches and timber, may , eyed, and all-accomplished scoundrels, whose 
holdhisown with the dandy hair ofhalf the eountry jcbiefest attribute js imperturbability. The imper- 
side. The cook at-Marchnibnt Towers had enough ' tuibabie villain has been guilty of every iniquity 
to do to prepare for this great day. It was the in the black catalogue of crimes? but he has never 
first meet of the season, and in itself a solemn , been guilty of an emotion. He wins a million of 
festiraJ. Paul Marchmont kaew this; and though ; money at irente et quaranti, to the terror and as- 
the Cockney. artist of Fitzroy Square knew about Jtonishmeht of ap Homburg; and by not so much 
as much of fox-hunting as he did of the source of 'a* one twinkle of his eye or one quiver of his lip 
theNile, he seized upon the opportunity of making dues that imperturbable creature betray a senti- 
himsejf popular, and determined to give such a ; ment of satislaction. Ruin or glory, sbame or 
iunting-breakfast as had never been give* within triumph, defeat, di-gracc, or death— all are alike 
the walls of Marchmont Towers since the time of ; to the callous njfiiaii of the Anglo-Gallic novel;, 
a certain rackety Hugh Marchmont, who had /Be smiles, and murders while he sun'cs, and 
drunk himself to death early in the reign of George | smiles while he murdeis. . ' 

III. He spent the morning of the 17th in the > Paul Marchmont was not this sort.of man. He- 
steward's room, loo-king through the celitr-book was a hypocrite when it was essential to his own 
with the old butler, selecting the wines that were (safety to practice hypocrisy: but he did not accept 
to bedrunli the following day, and planning the* life a* a drama, iti" which he was forever to be 
arrangements for the mast of visitors, who were (acting a ;;art. Life would scarcely be worth ths 
to be entertained in the groat stone entrance hail , | having tw any man upon ?ueh, terms. It is all very 
in the kitchens,'in the housekaeper's room, in the ) well to wear heavy plate-armor, and a casque that 
servants' hall, in almost every chamber that af- J weighs fourteen pernios or so, when We go into 
forded accommodation for a guest. ' A the thick'of the fight. But 1o wear the armor al- 

'.You .will take care that people get placed ac- ; ways, to live in it, to sleep in it, to carry the pon- 
cording to theirrank,' Paul said to the gray-haired ''lerous protection about , us forever end ever I — 
servant. 'You know every body about here, 1 ; 3afeiy would be. too dear if purchased by suCh si 
dare say, and will be able to manage so that we ; «acrifice of all personal ease. Paul Marchmont, 
may give no offense.' ''therefore, 'being a selfish and self-indulgent man, 

The gentry were to breakfast in the long dining- : only "wore his armor- of hypocrisy occasionally, 
room and in the western drawing-room. Spark-; and when it wo:- vitally necessary for his preser- 
ling hocks and Burgundies, fragrant Moselles, ■' ration. He had imposed upon himself a penance, 
Champagnes of choicest brand and rarest bouquet, i and ncted a part in holding beck for a year from 
were to flow like water for the benefit of the - the enjoyment of a splei did fortune; and he had 
country gentlemen who should come to do honor / made this one gre3t sn'erifice hi order to give the 
to Paul-Marchmont'a installation. Great cases licato Ed -raid Arundel's vagae accusations, which 
of comestibles had bean sent by rail from Fort- <' migSit have hsd an awkward eject upon theminds 
numand Mason's; and the science of the cook at ; of other people, had the artist grasped too eagerly 
the Towers had been taxed to the utmost, in thu at his missim; cousin's wet 1th. Paul Marchmont 
struggles which she made to prove herself equal 1iad this sacrifice; but he did not intend to 
to the occasion. Twenty-one great casks of ai«, *ct a part all his life. He meant to enjoy hiir- 
eaeh cask containia; twenty-one failons, had hem si-lf, and to w 'et the fullest possible benefit out of 
■rewed long ago, at the birth of Arthur March- his good fortune. He meant to do this; andupon 
mont, and had been laid in the cellar aver sine*, the 17th of October he made no effort to restrain 
waiting for the majority of the young hair who his spirits, but laughed and talked; /joyously with 
was aever to corns of age. This very ale. •'.Mi "whoever came in his way; winning golden opin- 
a certain sense of triumph, Paul Marchmont »r- iOne from all sorts of men; for h-appiness is con- 
dared to be brought forth for the r.-ffrashmant cf tagious.and every body likes happy people, 
the coiBmijruri. Forty years of poverty is a long apprenticeship 

'Poor young Arthur!' he thougkt, after he had to the rery hardest'of masters— an apprenticeship 
given this order. '1 taw him once when he was a ; calculated -to give tie keenest: possible zest to- 
pretty boy with fair ringlets, dressed in a suit of newly-acquired wealth. Paul Marchmont rejoiced 
black velvet. His father brought him to mi stu- in his wealth with an a imost delirious sense of e!e- 
dto one day, when he came to patronize me and light. It was his at last At last ! He had waited* - 
buy a picture of me — out of then- cnarity, ot 'and vvuited patiently; awl at last, while his powers i 
course, tor he cared as much for pictures -as. I do ;«f enjoyment were still in their zenith, ;t had 
for fox-hounds. J was a poor relation then, and ; come. How .often heihajd dreamed of this- how 
never thought to see the inside of Marchmont '.' often he had dreamed of that which was to* tike 
15 -■■.-..-, ,,.v-.,.. 



plac« to-morrow ! How often in his dreams he 
kad seen the stone-built mansion, and heard the 
voices of the crowd doing him honor. He had 
felt all the pride and delight of possession, to 
awake suddenly in th'e midst of his triumph, and 
gnash his teeth at the remembrance of his pov- 
erty. And now the poverty was a thing; to be 
dreamed about, and the wealth was his. He had 
always been a good son and a kind brother; and 
his mother and sister were to arrive upon the eve 
of his iastallation, and were to witness his tri- 
umph. The rooms that had been altered were 
those chosen by Paul for his mother and maiden 
sister, and the new furniture had been ordered for 
their comfort. It was one of his many pleasures 
upon this day to inspect the apartments, to see 
that all his directions ha-d been faithfully carried 
©ut, and to speculate upon the efiect which these 
spacious and luxurious chambers would have upon 
the minds of Mrs. Paul Marchmont and her daugh- 
ter, newly come from shabby lodjings in Char- 
lotte Street. 

'My poor mother!' thought the artist, as he 
looked round the pretty sitting-room. This sit- 
ting-room openad into a noble bedchamber, be- 
yond which there was a dressing-room. ' My poor 
mother!' he thought; 'she has suffered a long 
time, and she has been patient. She has never 
ceased to belfeve in me; and she will see now that 
there was some reason for that belief. I told her 
long ago, when our fortunes war© at the lowest 
ebb, when I was painting landscapes for the fur- 
niture-brokers at a pound apiece — I told her I was 
meant for something better than a, tradesman's 
hack; and I have proved it — I have proved it.' 

He walked about the room, arranging the fur- 
niture- with his own hands;' walking a few paces 
backward now and then to contemplate sueh and 
such an effect from an artistic point of view; 
flinging the rich stuff of the curtains into grace- 
ful folds; admiring and examining every thing, 
alwajs with a smile on his face. He seemed 
thoroughly happy. If he had done any wrong; if 
by any act of treachery he had hastened Mary 
Arundel's death, no recollection of that foul work 
arose in his breast to disturb the pleasant current 
of his thoughts. Selfish aad self-indulgent, only 
attached to those who were necessary to his own 
happiness, his thoughts rarely wandered beyond 
the narrow circle of his own cares or his own 
pleasures. He was thoroughly selfish. He could 
have sat at a Lord Mayor's feast with a farh«fe- 
stricken population elamoringat the door of the 
banquet chamber. He believed in himself as his 
mother and sister had believed; and he considered 
that he had a right to be happy and prosperous, 
whoever suffered sorrow and adversity. 

Upon this 17tK of October Olivia Marchmont 
sat in the little study looking out upon the quad- 
rangle, while the household was busisd with the 
preparations for the festival of the following day. 
She was to remain at Marchmont Towers as a 
guest of the new master of the mansion. She 
would be protected from all. scandal, Paul had 
said, by the presence of his mother and sister. 
She could retain the apartments she had been ac- 
customed to occupy; she could pursue her old mode 
of life. He himself was not likely to be very 
much at the Towers. He was going to travel and 
to enjoy life now that he was a rich man. 

These were the arguments which Mr. March- 
mont used when opeply discussing the widow's 
residence irt his ho««e, But in a privata ceuver- 

sation between Olivia and himself, he had only 
said a very few words upon the subject. 

'You must remain,' he said; and Olivia submit- 
ted, obeying him with a su-l-len indifference that 
was almost like the mechanical submission^pf an 
irresponsible being. 

John Marchmont's widow seemed entirely un- 
der the dominion of the new master of the Tow- 
ers. It was as if the stormy passions which had 
arisen out of a slighted love had worn out this 
woman's mind, and had left her helpless to stand 
against the force of Paul Marchmont's keen and 
vigorous intellect. A remarkable change had 
eome over Olivia's character. A dull apathy had 
succeeded that fiery energy of soul which had en- 
feebled and well-nigh worn out her hody. There 
were no outbursts of passion now. She bore the 
miserable monotony of her life uncomplaingly. 
Day after day, week, after week, month after 
month, idle and apathetic, she sat in her lonely 
room, or wandered slowly in the grounds about 
the Towers. She very rarely went beyond those 
grounds. She was seldom seen now in ber old 
pew at Kemberling Church; and when her father 
went to her and remonstrated with her for her 
non-attendance, she told him sullenly that she 
was too illto go. She was ill. George W«ston 
attended her constantly; but he found it very dif- 
ficult to administer to such a sickness as hers, and 
he could only shake his head despondently when 
he felt her feehle pulse, or listened to the slow 
beating of her heart. Sometimes-she would shut 
herself up in her room for a month at a time; and 
see no one but Mr. Weston — whom, ia her utter 
indifference, she seemed to regard as a kind of 
domestic animal, whose going or coming were 
alike unimportant — and her faithful servant Bar- 

This stolid, silent Barbara waited upon her mis- 
tress with untiring patience. She herewith every 
ehange of Olivia's gloomy teiaper; she was a per- 
petual shield and protection to her. Even upon 
this day of preparation and disorder, Mrs. Sim- 
mons kept guard the passag* leading to the 
study, and took care that no one intruded upon 
her mistress! At about four o'clock all Paul 
Marehmont's orders had been given, and the new 
master of the house dined for the first time by 
himself at the head of the long carv»d-oak dining 
table, waited upon in solemn state by the old but- 
ler. His mother and sister were to arrive by a 
train that would reach 'Swampington at ten 
o'clock, and one of the carriages from the Tow- 
ers was to meet them at the ststion'. The artist 
had leisure in the mean time for any other busi- 
nes's he might have to transact 

He ate his dinner slqwly, thinking deeply all 
the time. He did riot stop to drink any wine after 
dinner, but as soon as the cloth was removed, 
rose from the table, and want straight to Olivia's 

'I am going down to the painting-rcom,' ha 
said. 'W ill you come there presently? I want 
very much to say a few words to you.' 

Olivia was sitting near the window, with her 
hands lying idle in her lap. She rarely opened 
a book now, rarely wrote a letter, or occupied 
herself in any manner.' She scarcely raised her 
eyes as she answered him. 

'Yes,' she said; 'I will come.' 

'Don't be long, then. It will be dark very 
soon. I am not going down there to paint; I am 
going to fetch a landscape that I want to hang in 
my mother's room, and to say a fevr words about — ' 



H« clossd tlie door without stopping te finish ) 'Have you any thing more to say to me?' 
the featence, and went out into the qaadrangle. ' u ~~ '"" "~ : 

Tea minutes afterward Olivia Marchnront rose, 
and, taking a heavy woolen shawl from a chair 
near her, wrapped it loosely about her head and 

'I am his slave and his prisoner,' she muttered 
to herself. '1 must do as he bids me.' 

A cold wind was Mowing in the quadrangle, 
and the itone pavement was wet with a drizzling 
rain. The sun had just gone down, and the dull 
autumn sky was darkening. The failen leaves in 
the wood were sodden with damp, and rotted 
slowly on 'the swampy ground. 

Olivia took her way mechanically along the 
narrow pathway leading to the river. Half-way 
between Marchmont Towers and the boat-house 
she came suddenly upon the figure of a man walk- 
ing toward her through the dusk. This man was 
Edward Arundel. 

The two cousins had not met sines the March 
evening upon^ which Edward had gone to seek 
the widow in Paul Marchmont's painting-room. 
Olivia's pale face grew whiter as she recogniased 
the soldier. 

'I was coming to the house to speak to you^ 
Mrs. Marchmont,' Edward said, sternly. '1 am 
lucky in meeting you here, for I don't want any 
one to overhear what I've got to say.' 

, , „ . on-, 

(via asked, turniag upon her cousin as if she 
; would have demanded why he had followed 
i her. 

'Only this : I want to know your determtna- 
! tion; whether you will be advised by me — and by 
j your father— 1 saw my Uncle Hubert this morn- 
i ing, and his opinio* exactly coincides with mine 
! — or whether you mean obstinately to take your 
own course in defiance of every body?' 

'I do,' Olivia answered. 'I shall take my own 
course. I defy everybody. I have not bean 
gifted with the power of. winning people's affec- 
tion. Other women possess that power, and trifle 
with it, and turn it to bad aceount. I have 
prayed, Edward Arundel — yes, I have prayei 
upon my knees to the God who made me, that 
He would give me some poor measure of that 
gift which Nature had .lavished upon other w»- 
men; but He would not hear me, He would not 
hear me. I was not made loved. Why, 
then, should I make myself a slave for the sake 
of winning people's esteem? If they have de- 
spised me, I can despise them.' 

'Who has despised you, Olivia?' Edward asked, 
perplexed by his cousin's manner. 

'You have!' she cried, with flashing eyes; 'you 

hav.e ! From first to last — from first to last!' 

She turned away from him impatiently. 'Go,' 

He had turned in the direction in "which Olivia \ she said; 'why should we keep up a mock&ry of 

had been walking; but she made a dead stop, aad 
stood looking at him. 

'You were going to the boat-hou.^.'he said. 'I 
will go there with you.' 

She looked at him for a moment, as if doubtful 
what to do, and then said : 

friendship and, cousinship? We are nothing to 
each other.' 

Edward walked- toward the door; but he paused 
upon the threshold, with his hat in his hand, un- 
decided as to what he ought to do. 

As he stood thus, perplexed and irresolute, a 

'Very well. You can say what you have to say j cry, the feeble cry of a child, sounded within the 
to me, and then leave me. There i» no sympathy j pavilion. 

between us; thsre is no regard between us; we! The young man- started and looked at his cou- 
are only antagonists.' I sin. Even in the dusk he could see that her face 

'I hope not, Olivia. I hope there is some spark ! had suddenly grown livid, 
of regard still, in spite of all. I separate you in j 'There is a child in that place,' he said, point- 
my own mind from Paul Marchmont. I pity you, ', ing to the door at the top of the gt«ps. 
for I believe you to be his tool.' 1 " J The cry was repeated as he spoke — the low, 

'Is this what you have to say to me?'- j complaining wail of a child. There was no other 

'No; I came here as your kinsman, to ask you I voice to be heard — no mother's voice soothing a 
what you mean to do now that Paul Marchmont J helpless little one. The cry. of tfa* thild was fol- 
has taken pos«ession of the Towers ?' (lowed by a dead silence. 

'1 mean to stay there.' \ 'There is a child in tkat pavilion,' Edward 

'In spite of the gossip that your remaining' will j Arundel repeated, 
give rise to among these country people !' 'Thrrp. in.' Olivi: 

'In spite of everything. Mr. Marchmont wishes 
me to stay. It suits me to stay. What does it 
matter what people say of me ? What do I care 
for any one's opinion — now?' 
'Olivia,' cried the young man, 'are you mad?' 
'Perhaps 1 am,' she answered, coldly 

'Why is it that you shut yourself from the sym- ) his pathway 

There is,' Olivia answered. # 

'Whose child?' 
'What does it matter to you ?' 
'Whose child?' 

'I can »ot tell you, Edward Arundel.' 
The soldier strode toward the steps, bnt before 
he could reach them Olivia flung kerself across 

'1 will see whose child is hidden in that place ' 
he said. 'Scandalous things have been said o'f 
you, Olivia. I will know the reason of your visits 
to this place.' 

She clung about his knees and hindered him 
de-ifrom movinj; half-kneeling, half-crouehing on 
j the lowest of the stone-steps, she blocked his 
pathway and prevented him from reaching the 
door of the pavilion. It had been ajar a ■few 
minutes ago; it was shut now. But Edward had 
there. There was a picture covered with a green S not noticed this, 
baize upon the easel, and the artist's hat stood fNo, no, no !' shrieked Olfvia; 'you shall tram- 
upon the table amidst the litter of brushes and j pie me to death before yom enter that plaee. You 
pallets; but the room was empty. The door at shall walk over my corpse beliTre you pass over 
the top of the stone steps leadiDg to the pavilion that threshold.' 
wa* ajar. j The young; man struggled with her for a few 

pathyof those who have a right to care far you? 
What is the mystery of your life ?' 

His cousjp. laughed bitterly. 

'Would you like to know, Edward Arundel? ' 
she said. 'You shall know, perhaps, some day 
You have despised me all ray life; you will 
( spise me more and more then.' 

They had reached Paul Marchmont 's painting- 
room by this time. Olivia opened the door and 
walked in, followed by Edward. Paul was not 



moments; then he suddenly flung her from him — been if his- young wife had lived. He could 
"not violently, but with a contemptuous gesture. : fancy her bending over the low silver tea-pot — 

'You are a wicked woman, Olivia Marchmont,' ■ the sprawling, inartistic, tea-pot, that stood upon' 
he said; 'and it matters very little to m« what' quaint knobs, like gouty feet, and had been Ion*' 
you do or what becomes of you. I know now the ago banished from the Danjerfield breakfast-table 
secret of the mystery between you and Paul as utterly rococo and ridiculous. He conjured up 
Marchmont. L can guess your motive for per- the dear dead face, with faint blushes flickering 
petually haunting this place'.' '' ' lA ' " "~~ -.j--/^i > * .. 

He left the solitary building by the river and. 
walked slowly back through the wood. 

His mind — predisposed to think ill of Olivia by . 
the dark rumors he had heard through his ser- 
vant, and which had had a certain amount of in-) 
fluence upon him, as all scandals have, however 
baseless — could imagine only one solution, to the 
mystery of a child's presence in the lonely build- 
ing by the river. r Outraged and indignant at the 
discovery he had made, he turned his back upoei ' 
Marchmont Towers. 

'I will stay in tins h'stefu) plt-ce no longer,' 

amidst its lily pallor, and soft hazel eyes looking 
up at him through the misty steam of the tear 
tabic, innocent and virginal as the eyes of that 
mythic nymph who was wont to appear to the old 
Roman king. How happy she would have been! 
How willing to give up fortune and station, and 
to have lived for ever and ever in that queer old 
cottage, ministering to him and loving him ! 

Presently the face changed. The hazel-brown 
hair was suddenly Jit up with a glitter of barbaric 
gold; the hazel eyes grew blue and bright; and 
the cheeks blushed rosy red. The young man 
frowned at this new and brighter vision; but he 
thought, as he Went back to his. solitary home;* contemplated it gravely for some moments, and 
'but before I leave Lincolnshire the whole coup.-', then breathed a long sigh, which was somehow 
try shail know what I think of Paul Marchmont.' / or other expressive of relief. 

', ' 'jS'o,' he said to himself, 'I am net false to my 
< poor lost girl; I do not forget her. Her image is 
dearer to me than any living creature. Tl e 
mournful shadow of her face is mere precious to 
me than the brightest reality.' 

He stt down iu one of the spindle-iegsed arm- 
chairs, and poured out a cup of tea. He drank 
it slowly, brooding over the lire as he- sipped the 
innocuous beverage, and did not deign to notice 
the caresses of the brown setter, who laid his 
d wet nose in his master's band by way of a 



Edward Arundel went back to'his lonclj home: 
with a settled purpnja in his mind. He would! 
leave Lincolnshire — and imi isdiateiy. He had.; 
no motive for r'eniainin 
he had a strong motive 


ii iiv.Y be, indeed, that/ delicate attention. 
• .. p._ ._ .1 ' . ^ .. ' ' 

neighborhood of Lawford 

;;ing away from the 
ri'ange. There was a 


lurking danger in the close vicinage of that pleas- • 
ant, old-fashioned country mansion, and the , 
bright band of blue-eyed damsels who inhabited 
there. ' \ 

'I will turn my back upon Lincolnshire for-; 
ever,' Edward Arundel said to himself onee more, ' 
upon his way homeward through the October 
twilight; 'but before [ go, the whol* country shall ■ 

bell, which 

After tea the young man rang 
was answered by fVlr. Moriison. 

'Hnv.-j i any clothes that i can hunt in, 
sour' Mr. Arundel asked. 

His factotum stared aghast at this question. 
'You ain't a-goin' to 'unt, are you, Mr. Ed- 
ward?' he inquired, anxiously 

'ft ever rnind that. 1 asked jou a question 
about my clothes", and I want a straightforward 
answer.' . 
know what 1 think of Paul Marchmont.' '{ 'iiut, Mr. Edward,' remonstrated the old ser- 

He clench»d,his fists and ground his teolh in- _ vant, 'I don't mean no offense; and the 'orses is 
voluntarily as he thought- this. fvery tidy animals in their way; but if you're 

It was quite dark when he let himself in at the'-, tbinkin' "of going across country— and a pretty 
old-fashioned hali-glass door that led into his stiffish country, too, as I've heard, in the way of 
humble sitting-room at Lemberiing Retreat. He < hull-finches and timber— neither of them horses 
leoked round the little chamber, which had been ; has any more of a hujitar in him than I have.' 
furnished forty years before by the proprietor of;. 'I know that as well as you do,' Edward Arun- 
the cottage, and had served for one tenant after; del answered, coolly; 'but 1 ara going to the meet 
another, until it stemed as if the spindle-legged ; at Marchmont Towers to-morrow morning, and 
chairs and tables had grown attenuated ami ,, i want you to look me out a decent suit of 
shadewy by much service. He looked at the ; clothes,' that's ail. Tou can have Desperado 
simple room, lighted by a bright fire and a, pair of; saddled ready for me a little after eleven o'clock.' 
wax candles in antique sjlver candlesticks. The '. Mr. Morrison looked even more astonished 
red fire-light flickered and trembled upon the ;th*n before. He knew his master's savage en- 
painted roses on the walls, on the obsolete en- ; mity toward Paul Marchmont; and yet that very 
graving* in clumsy frames of imitation-ebony and ; master now deliberately talked of joining in an 
tarnished guilt; the silver tea-service and Sevres; assembly' which was to gather together for the 
china cup and saucer, which Mrs. Arundel had; special purpose of doing the sane Paul March- 
sent to ths cottage for her son's use, stood upon; mont honor. However, as he afterward re- 
the small oval table; and a brown setter, a favo-; marked to the two fellow-servants with whom he 
rite.of the young man's, lay upon the hearth-rug, ; sometiaaes condescended to be familiar, it wasn't 
with his chin upon his outstretched paws, blink- ^ his place to interfere or to ask any questions, and 
ing at the blaze. ' 'he had held hjs tongue accordingly. 

As Mr. Arundel lingered in the doorway, look- '/ Perhaps this respectful reticence was rather 
ing at these things, an ,image arose before him, as ; the result of prudence than of inclination; for 
vivid and distinct as any apparition of Professor ; there was a dangerous light in Edward Arundel's 
Pepper's manufacture; and he thought of what < eyes upon this particular evening which Mr. Mor- 
that commonplace cottage-chamber might have prison never had observed before. 


The factotum said something about this later', ben bare a certain dim*'' grimness about them, 
in the evening. ; whie j, is more pleasant to the gight-jeer than to 

V'l do really think,' he remerkod, 'that, what \ the constant inhabitant; but in this tapestry the 
with that young 'ooflian's death, and the'solitood ' colors were almost as bright and glowing to-day 
of this most dismal place, and the rainy weather j as when the fingers that had baadled .the varie- 
-whic.i those as says it always rains in Lincoln- ! gnted worsteds were still warm and flexible. The 
shire am t far out— my pore young a.aster is not ; subjects, too, were of ?. more pleasant order'than 
tbe man he were.' i usual. No mailed ruffians or drapery-clad bar- 

He tapped his/orehead ominously, to give sig- ! barians menaced the unoffending sleeper with 
nificance to bis words, and sighed heavily over j uplifted clubs, or-horrible bolts, in the very act 
his supper-beer. , j f being launched from ponderous cross-bows; no 

. !■ wicked-looking 8aracens, with ferocious eyes and 

The sun shone upon Paul Marchmont on the j copper-colored visages, brandished murderous 
morning of the 18th of October. The glorious jeimeiars above their turbaned heads. Wo; hero 
autumn sunshine streamed into his gorgeous bed- j all wus pastoral gayety and peaceful' delight, 
chamber— which had been luxuriously fitted for { Maidens, with flowing kirtles and crisped yellow 
him Under his own superintendence— and awoke ! hair, danced before great wagons loaded with 
tie new master of Marchmont Towers. He ! golden wheat. Youths, in red and purple jer- 
opened his eyes, and looked about him. He raised j ki.-.t, frisked as thev played the pipe and tabor, 
himself among the down pillows, and contem- j The Flemish horse* dragging the heavy wain 
plated the figures upon the tapestry in a drowsy wtr» hung with bells and garlands, as for a rus- 
rererie. He had been dreaming of his poverty; j tic festival, and tossed their untriinmed manes 
and had been disputing a poor-rale summons j into the air, .and frisked and gamboled with their 
with an impertinent tax-collector i tbe dingy j avkward legs, in ponderous imitation of the 
passage of the houee in Charlotte Str.'et, Fitzroy j youth* and maidens', Afar ofl', in' the distance, 
Square. Ah! that horrible house ' sd'so lonj; j wonderful villages, .very queer as to perspective, 
been the oniy scene of his life that it had grown ; but all a-bloom with "gaudy flowers and quaint 
almost a par: of his mind, and haunt ;d him per- - roofs of bright red tiles, stood boldly out against 
petaally in his sleep, like a nightmare of brick > a bluer sky -than the most enthusiastic pre-Ra- 
and mortar, now that he was rich, a;,d had done ;i phielite of to-day would care to send to the 
with it forever, ; Ai ademy in Trafalgar Square. 

Mr. Marchmont gavs a. faint phudder, and ; , Paul Marchmont smiled at the youths and 
shoolf off the influence of the bad dream. Then, < maidens, tbe laden wagons, the revelers, aDd the 
propped up by the pillows, he amisea himself by ; impossible village. He was in a humor to be 
admiring his new bedchamber. < phased with every thing to-day. He looked at 

It was a handsome room, certainly; Ihr very j his dressing-ta!»le, which stood opposite to him, 
room for an artist and a sybarite. Mr. March- { in the deep oriel window. His valet — he had a 
taunt had not chosen k without due consideration. > valet now — had opened the great- inlaid dressing- 
It was situated in an angle of the house; and ; case, and the siiver-gilt fittings reflected the 
though its chief windows looked westward, being ) crimson hues of the velvet lining, as if the gold 
immediately above those of the western drawing- j had been flecked with blood. Glittering bottles 
room, there was another casement, a ereat oriel > of diamond-cut glass, that presented a thousand 
window, facing the east, aod admitting all the ( facets to the morning light, stood like crystal 
grandeur of the morning sun through painted J obelisks amidst the litter of carved ivory brushes, 
glass, on which the Marchmont escutcheon was J and Sevres boxes of pomatums; and. one rare hot- 
represented in gorgeous hues of sapphire and )' house flower, white and fragile, peeped out of a 
ruby, emerald and topaz, amethyat and aqua J slender crystal vase, against a back-ground of 
rnarina. Bright splashes of these colors flashed J dark shining leaves. 

and sparkled on the polished oaken floor, and! 'It's better than Charlotte Street, Fitzroy 
mixed themselves with the Oriental gaudiness of j Square,' said Mr. Marchmont, throwing himself 
a Persian carpet, stretched. beneath the low Ara- ; baek a.aong the pillows until such time as his 
bian bed, which w-as hung with ruby-colored j valet should bring' him a cup of strong tea to re- 
draperies that trailed up.-n the ground. Paul ; fresh and invigorate his nerves withal. 'I re- 
Marchmont was fond of sp. ^dor, and meant to ' member the paper in my room : drab hexagons 
have as much of it as money c. -'d buy. There ,' and yellow spots upon a brown ground. So 
was a voluptuous pleasure in all it. finery, which j pretty ! Ar/d then the dressing-table : deal, 'race- 
only a parvenu could feel; it was. the sharpne».sof I fully designed; with a shallow drawer that very 
the contrast between tbe magnifies ~e of the i rarely would consent to come out, and which 
present and the shabby miseries of the , ist that when out, bad an insurmountable objection to 
gave a poignancy to the artist's enjoymen. if his going in again; a most delicious table, exquisitely 
new habitation. i painted in stripes, olive green upon stone color 

All the furniture and draperies of the cham._ - picked out with the favorite brown. Oh, it was' 
had been made by Paul Marchmoat's direction; \ most delightful life; but it's over, thank Provi- 
but its chief beauty was the tapestry that covered Zience; it's over!' 

the walls, which" had been worke«l three huo- Mr. Paul Marchmont thanked Providence as 
dred years before, by a patient chatelaine of the levoutly as if he had been the most patient at- 
house of Marchmont. This tapestry lined tec pendant upon the divine pleasure, and had never 
reom on every side. The low door had been cut for one moment dreamed of intruding his own 
in it; so that a stranger going into that apartment ; impious handiwork amidst the mysterious de 
at night, a little under the influence of the March- signs of Omnipotence. 

mont cellars, and unable to register the topogra- The sun shone upon the new master of Marrh 
phy of the chamber upon the tablet of his mem-; mont Towers. This bright October mo- 
ory, might have been sorely puzzled to find an ;■ was not the very best for hunting Burnoae^f' 8 ' 
exit tha next morning. Most tapostned cham- > there was a fresh breeze blowing from the north 


and a blue Unclouded sky. But it was most dc- j body about, him— ha — felt ou this most — arrah, 
lightful weather for the breakfast, and the as-; arrah— interexting — er— occasion; and said a 
serabiing on the lawn, and all the pleasant pre-: great dsal mors, which took a very long time to 
liminaries of the day's sport. Mr. Paul March-? say, but the gist of which. : was, that ail these 
moat, who was a thorough-bred Cockney, troubled ' country gentlemeB were no .enraptured by the 
himself very little about the hunt as he basked in ; new addition to their circle, xnd so altogether 
that' morning light. Hs only thought that the ; delighted with Mr. Paul Marchmont, that they 
sun was shining upon h-im, and that he had come ;! really were at a lots to understand how it. was 
at last — no matter by what crooked ways— to < they had ever managed to endure existence witk- 
the realization of his great day-dream;- ar.d that J out him. 

ha was to be happy and prosperous for the rest of ', And then tljere was a good deal of rather un- 
kis life. '/ necessary but very enthusiastic thumping of ttie 

He drank kis tea, and tkea got up and dreised < table, whereat the costly glass shivered, and the 
himself. He wore the conventional 'pink,' the ■', hot-house blossoms trembled, amidst the musical 
whitest buckskins, the most approved boots and ) chinking of silver forks, -while tie fox-hunters 
tops; and he admired himself very much in 1he ;. declared in chorus that the new owner of iMarch- 
eheral glass when this toilet was complete. He : moat Towers was a jolly good fellow, which — 
had put on the dress for ilia gratification of his ', viz., the fact of his jollity — nobody could deny, 
vanity, rather than from any serious intention of jl It was not a very refined fiemonstration, but it 
doing what he was about as incapable of doinig : was a vory hearty one. Moreover, these noisy 
as he was of becoming .a modern Rubens or a ;, fox-hunters were all men of some standing in 
new Raphael. He would receive his friends in ', the county; and it is a proof of the artist's in- 
this costume, and ride to cover, and follow the \ herent snobbery that to him the husky voices of 
hounds, perhaps — a. little way. At any rate, it) these half-drunken men were more delicious 
was very delightful to him to play the country ' f than the sweet soprano tones of an equal number 
g«ntleman; and he had uever felt so much a ) of Pattis — penniless and obscure Pattis, that is 
country gentleman as at this moment, whan he > to say — sounding his praises. He was lifted at 
contemplated himself from head to heel in his ; last out of that poor artist-life, in which he had 
hunting costume. • ;, always been a groveler — not for lack of talent, 

At ten o'clock the guests began to assemble;} but by reason of the smallness of his own soul — 
the meet was not to take place until twelve, so {into a new sphere, where every body was rich 
that there might be plenty of time for the break- ' y and grand and prosperoas ; and where the pleas- 
fast. ' ant pathways were upoa the necks of proitrate 

1 don't think Paul Marchmont ever really \ slaves, in the shape of grooms and hirelings, re- 
knew what took place at that long table at which / speotfol servants, and reverential trades-people 1 
he sat for the first time in the place of host and/ Yes; Paul Marchmont was more dxunken than 
master.. He was intoxicated from the first with /any of his guests; but his drunkenness was of a 
the sense of triumph and delight in his new posi- / different kind to theirs. It was not the wine, but 
tion; and he drank: a great deal, for he drank un-/his own grandeur that intoxicated and besotted 
consciously, emptying his glass every time it was! him. 

filled, and never knowing who filled it, or what. 1 These fox-hunters might get the better of their 
was put into it. By this means he took a very /drunkenness in half an hour or so; but his intoxi- 
considerable quantity of various sparkling and /cation was likely to last for a very long time un- 
effervescing wines; sometimes hock, sometimes / less he should rsceive'some sudden shock, potter- 
Moselle, very often Champagne, to say nothing', ful enough to sober him. The hounds were yelp- 
of a steady undercurrent of unpronounceable/ ing and baying upon the lawn, and the huntsmen 
German hocks and crusted Burgundies. But he, and vvhippsrs-in were running backward and for- 
was not drunk after the common fashion of mor-/ ward from the lawn to the servants' hall, devour- 
t'als; he could not be upon this particular d*y. '•' ing snacks of beef and ham — a pound and a 
He was not stupid, or drowsy, or unsteady upon ', quarter or so at one sitting; or crunching the 
his legs; he was only preturnatu'rally excited, phones of a frivolous young chicken — thsre were 
looking at everything through a haze of dazzling! not half a dozen mouthfule on such insignificant, 
light, as if all the gold of his newly-acquired for-'., half-grown fowls; or excavating under the roof 
tune had been melted into the atmosphere* \ of a great game-pie; or drinking a quart or so of 

He knew that the breakfast was a great suc-/stroBg ale, or half a tumbler of raw brandy, en 
cess; that the long table was spread %vith ererj/passani; and doing a- great deal more in the same 
delicious comestible that the science of a first- j way, merely to beguile the time until the gentle- 
rate cook, to say nothing of Fortnum'and Mason, \ folks. should appear upon the broad stone terrace, 
could devis*; that the profusion of splendid sii- ; It was half-psst twelve o'clock, and Mr. Mareh- 
ver, the costly china, the hot-house flowers, and j mont's guests were still drinking and speeehify- 
the sunshine, made a confused mass of restless j ing. They had been on the point of making a 
glitter and glowing color that dazzled his eyes a? i move ever so many times; but it had happened 
he looked at it. He knew that every body courted j that each time sonse gentleman, whs- had been 
and flattered him, and that he was almost stifled ! very quiet until that moment, suddenly got upon 
by the overpowering sease of his own grandeur. } his legs, and began, to cling convulsively to the 
Perhaps, he felt this most when a certain county j neck of a half empty Champagne-bottle, and to 
magnate, a baronet, member of Parliameat, and ) make swallowing and gasping noises, and to wipe 
great land-owner, rose— primed with Champagne, Shis lips with a napkin; whereby it was understood 
and rather thicker of utterance than a man j that he was going to propose somebedy 's health 
should be who means to be in at the death, by- < This had considerably lengthened the entertain- 
and-by — and took the opportunity of — hum — ; ment, and- it seemed rather likely that the osten- 
expressing, in a few words — haw — the very ; sible business of the day would be forgottea alto- 
great pleasure which he — aw, yes — and he j gether. One gentleman, indeed, huskier than hi s 
thought he might venture to remark— aw— every < neighbors, had been heard to mutter something 



aboat billiards and soda-water; and another, who < ishness of nan's ambition. In that moment 
via thick of speech, but not husky, and who had \ memory and conscience, never very wakeful m 
shed tears in proposing an uniatelligible toast— ] the breajt of Paul Marchmont, were dead asleep, 
^ which was supposed to be the health cf her > and only triumph and delight ieigned in their 
gracious Majesty— suggested a stretch -on a sofa, \ stead. No; there was nothing wanting. This 
antl the removal of his boots. At last, at half ; glory and grandeur paid him a thousand-fold for 
pist.twelve, the county magnate, who hi>d bidden j hi» patience and self-abnegation during the past 
Paul Marchmont a stately welcome to Lincoln- , year. He turned half round to look up at those 
ibire, remembered thst there, were twenty couple : eager watchers at the window . 
of impatient hounds scratching up the turf 'in; Good God! It was his sister Lavinia's face 
front of the long windows of the banquet-chsyn- j he saw; no longer full of triuaiph and pleasure, 
ber, while as many eager young tenant farmers, < but ghastly pale, and staring at some one or 
stalwart yeomen, well-to-do butchers, and a herd something horrible in the crowd. Pa«l Marcb- 
of tag-rag and bobtail, were pining for the sport \ mont turned to look far this horrible something, 
to begin — at last, I say, Sir Lionel Boport re- { the sight of which had power to ehaage his sis- 
membered this, and led the way to the terrace, ter's face; and found himself confronted by a 
leaving the renegades to repose on the comfort- young man — a young man whose eyes flamed 
able sofas lurking here and there in the spacious j like coals of fire; whose cheeks were as white as 
rooms. Then the grim stone front of the house ) a sheet of paper; and whose firm lips were locked 
was suddenly lighted up into splendor. The long j as tightly as if they had been chiseled out pf a 
terrace was one blaze of pink, relieved here and \ block of graaite. 

there by patches of sober black and forester's This man was Edward Arundel — the young 
green. Among all these stalwart, florid-visaged ! widower, the- handsome soldier — whom every 
country gentlemen, Paul Marchmont, very ele- } body remembered as ths husband of poor lost 
gant, very picturesque, but extremely unsports- 1 Mary Marchmont. / 

man-like, the hero of the ho«r, walked slowly He had sprung cut from amidst the crowd only 
down the broad sto»e steps, amidst the vociferous j one moment befere, and had dashed up the steps 
cheering of the crowd, the snapping and yelping \ of the terrace before any one had time to think 
of impatient hounds, and the distant braying of a | of hindering him or interfering with him. It 
hora. i seemed to Paul Marchmont as if he must have 

It was the the crowning moment of his life; the I leaped out of the soiid earth, so suddden and fo 
moment he had dreamed of again and again in J unlooked-for was his coming. 15e stood upon the 
the wretehed days of poverty and obscurity. The : step immediately below the artist; but as the ter- 
seene was scarcely new to him — ha had acted it > race steps were shallow, and as he was taller by 
so often in his imagination; he had heard the ; half a foot than Paul, the faces of the men Were 
shouts and seen the respectful crowd. There } level, and they confronted each other. 
was a little difference in detail — that was all.i The soldier held-.a heavy hunting-whip in his 
There was no disappointment, no shortcoming in 1 hand, no foppish toy with a golden trinket f° r 't» 
the realization, as. there so often is when our j head, hut a stout handle of stag-horn, and a f»r- 

brightest dreams are fulfilled, and the one great 
good, the all-desired, i* granted to us. No; the 
prize was his, and it was worth all that he had 
sacrificed to win it. 
He looked up and saw his mother and his sisters 

midable leathern thong. He held this whip in his 
strong rieht hand, with the thong twisted round 
the handle; and throwing out his left arm neiv- 
oui and muscular as the limb of a young gladi- 
ator, he seized Paul Marchmont by the collar of 

ia the great window over the porch. Ee could j that fashionably-cut scarlet coat which the artist 
s»e the exultant pride in his mother's pale face; J had so much admired in the cheval glass that 
and the one redeeming sentiment of his nature, \ morning. 

his love for the womankind who depended upon ! There was a shout of surprise and c'onsterna- 
him, stirred faintly in his breast, amidst- the j tion from the gentlemen on the and the 
tumult of gratified ambition and selfish joy. ! erowd upon the lawn, a shrill scream from the 

This one drop of unselfish pleasure, filled the \ women, and in the next moment Paul Marcb- 
eup to the brim. He took oft" his hat and waved j mont was writhing under a shower of blows 
it high up above his head in answer to the shout- from the hunting-whip ia EdwardArundel's hand, 
ingof the crowd. He had stopped half-way down [ The artist was not physically brave, yet he" was 
the flight of steps to bow his acknowledgment of; not such a eur as to submit unresistingly to this 
the cheering. Me waved his hat. and the huzzas J hideous disgrace; but the attack was so' sudden 
grew still louder; and a hand upon the other j and unexpected as tr> parsljze him; so rapid in 
side of the lawn played tha,t favniiisr and trium- \ its execution as to leave him no time for resist- 
phant march which is supposed to apply to every ] ance. Before he had recovered his presence of 
living hero, from a Wellington just come home j mind; before he knew the meaning of Edward 
from Waterloo to the winner of a boat-race, or a J Arundel's appearance in that place; eves before 
patent-starch proprietor newly elected by an ad- j he could fully realize the mere fact of his being 
miring constituency. there — the thing was doie; t.c was disgraced for- 

There was aothing wanting. I think that in \ ever. He had sunk in that one moment from the 
that supreme moment Paul Marchmont quite for- very height of his new grandeur te the lowest 
got the tortuous and perilous ways by which he depth of social degradation. 
Sad reached this all-glorious goal. I donjt sup- j 'Gentlemen !' Edward Arundel cried, in a ioud 

pose the young princes, smothered in the Tower, 

w6re ever more palpably present in tyrant 

Richard's memory than whrn the murderous 

usurper groveled in fiosworth's miry clay, and [ must 

knew that the great game of life was lost. It > you to know my opinion of the new master of 

was only when Henry the Eighth took away the j Marchmont Towers; and I think I've expressed 

great seal that Wolsey was able to see the fool- 1 it pretty clearly. T know him to be a most con- 

voice, which was distinctly heard by every mem- 
ber of the gaping crowd, 'wheu the law of the 
land suffers a scoundrel' to prosper, honest men 
; take the law into their own hands. I wished 



summate villain; and I give you fair warning 
that he is no fit associate for honorable men. 

Edward Arundel lifted his hat, bowed to the 
assembly, and then ran down the steps. Paul 
Marchaaont, livid, and foaming at the mwulh, 
rushed after him, brandishing his elenohed lists, 
and gesticulating in impotent rage; but the young 
man's horse was waiting for him at a few paces 
from the terrace, in the eare of a butcher's ap- 
prentice, and ha was in the saddle before the 
artist could overtake him. 

'I shall not leave Kemberling for a week, Mr. 
MurchrnoBt,' he called out; and then he walked 
his horse away, holding himself erect as a dart, 
and staring defiance at the crowd. 

I am sorry to have to testify to the fickle nature 
of the British populace; but I am bound to own 
that a great many of the stalwart yeomen who 
had eaten game-pies and drunk strong liquors at 
Paul Marchmont's expense not half an hour be- 
fore, were base enough to feel an involuntary 
admiration for Edward Arundel, as he rode slowly 
away, with his head up and his cy»s flaming. 
Tkere is seldom very much genuine sympathy for 
a man who has been horsewhipped; ana there is 
a. pretty universal inclination to believe that th.a 
man who inflicts chastisement upon him must be 
right in th« main. It is true that the tenant far- 
mers, especially those whose leases were nearly 
run out, were very loud in their indignation 
against Mr. Arundsl, and one adventurous spirit 
made a dash at the younj man's bridle as he went 
by; but the general feeling was in favor of the 
conqueror, and there was a lack of heartiness 
even in the loudest expressions of sympathy. 

The crorrd mad* a lane for Paul Marcbmorit 
as he went back to the- house, white and helpless, 
and sick with shame. 

Several of the gentlemen upon the terrace 
eume forward to shake kands with him, and to 
express their indignation, and to offer any friendly 
service that he might require of them by-and-by — 
such as standing by to see him fchot, if he should 
choose an old-fashioned mode of retaliation; or 
bearing witness against Edward Arundel in a 
law-coart, if Mr. Marchmont preferred to take 
legal measures. But even these men recoiled 
when they fejt the cold dampness of the artist's 
hands, and saw that he hxd been frighttntd . These 
sturdy uproarioas fox-huuters, who braved the 
peril of sudden death every time they took a 
day's sport, entertained a sovereign contempt for 
a nia'n who e»u<d be frightened of any body or 
any thing. They made no allowance for Paul 
Marchmont's Cockney education; tkey were not 
ia the dark secrets of his life, and knew nothing 
of- his guilty conscience; and it was that which 
had made him more helpless than a ehild in the 
fierce grasp of Edward Arundel. 

So, one by one, 'after this polite show of sym- 
pathy, the rick man's guests fell away from him; 
and the yelping hounds an<J the cantering horses 
left the lawn before Marchmont Towers; the 
sound of the brass band and the voices of the 
people died away in the distance; and the giory 
of the day was dons. 

Paul Marchmont crawled slowly back to that 
luxutious bedchamber which he bad left only a 
few hours before, and, throwing himself at full 
length upon the he'd, sobbed like a frightened 

He was panic-stricken; not because of the 
horsewhipping, but because of a sentence that 

Edward Arundel had whispered close to his ear 
in the midst of the struggle. 

'I know eveiy thing,' the young man had said. 
'I know the secrets you hide in the pavilion by 
the river!-' 




Edward Arundel kept his word. He waited 
for a. week and upward, but Paul Marchmont 
made no sign; and after having given him three 
days' grace over and shove the promised time 
the young man abandoned Kemberling Retreat, 
forever, as he thought, and went away from Lin- 

He had waited, hoping that Paul Marchmont 
would try t» retaliate, and that some desperate 
struggle, physical or legal — he scarcely cared 
which— would occur between them. He would 
have courted any hazard which might have 
given him some chance of revenge. But nothing 
happened. He sent out Mr. Morrison to beat 
up information about the raster of Marchmont 
To wars; and the factotum came back with the 
intelligence that Mr. Marohrnont was ill, and 
would see no one — 'leastways' excepting his mo- 
ther and Mr. George Weston. 

Edward Arundel shrugged his shoulders when 
ho heard these tidings. 

'What a conleaaptible cur the man is!' he 
thought. 'There was a time wheal could have 
suspected liiia of any foul play against my lost 
girl. I know him better now, and know that he is 
not even capable of a great crime. He was only 
strong enough to slab his victim in the dark, with 
lying paragraphs in newspapers, and dastardly 
hints and inuendoes for his weapons.' 

It would have been only perhaps an act of or- 
dinary politeness had Edward Arundel paid a fare- 
well visit to his friends at Ihs Grange. But ha 
did not go near the hospitable o'd house. He con- 
tented himself with writing a cordial letter to Ma- 
jor Lawford, thanking him for his hospitality and 
kindness; and referring, vaguely enough, to the 
hope of a future meeting. 

Throughout that last day Mr. Arundel wan- 
dered here knd. there- about the house and garden 
that 30 soon were to bo deserted. He was dread- 
fully at a loss what to do with himself, and, alas ! 
it was not to-day oaly that he felt the burden of 
his hopeless idleness. He felt it always, a horri- 
ble load, not to be cast away from him. 

His life was most miserablo, most hopeless, by 
reason of its emptiness. He had no duty to per- 
form, no task to achieve. That nature must be 
utterly selfish, entirely given over to sybarite reel; 
rind self-indulgence, which does not feel a lack of 
something, wanting these — a duty or a purpose. 
Better to be Sisyphus toiling up the mountain-side, 
ths^n Sisyphus with the stone taken away from 
him, and no hops of ever reaching the top. I heard 
a man once — a bill-sticker, and not by any means 
a sentimental or philosophical person — declare 
that he had never known real prosperity until he 
had thirteen orphan grandchiMien to support; arnd 
surely there was a universal moral in that bill- 
sticker'g confession. He bad been a drunkard be- 
fore, perhaps — he didn't say any thing about that 
— and a reprobate, it may be; but those thirteen 
small mouths clamoring for food made him sober 



and earnest, brave and true. He had a duty to 
do, and was happy in its performance. He was 
wanted in the world, and he was somebody. 

The only joy that had been left for Edward 
Arundel after his retirement from the East India 
Company's service, was the fierce delight of ven- 
geance. He had drained the intoxicating cup to 
tne dregs, and had been drunken at first in the 
sense of his triumph. But he was sober now; and 
he paced up and down the neglected garden be- 
neath a chill October sky, crunching the fallen 
leaves under his feet, with his arms folded and 
his head bent, thinking of the barren future. It 
was all bare — a blank stretch of desert-land, with 
no city in the distance; no purple domes or airy 
minarets on the horizon. It was in the very na- 
nire of this young man to be a soldier; and he 
was nothing if not a soldier. ' He could never re- 
member having had any other aspiration than that 
eager thirst for military glory. Before he knew 
the meaning of the word 'war,' in his very in- 
fancy, the sound of a trumpet or the sight, of a 
waving banner, a glittering weapon, a sentinel's 
scarlet coat, had moved him to a kind of rapture. 
The unvarnished school-room records of Greek 
and Roman warfare had been as delightful to hir.i 
as the finest passages of a Macaulay or a Fronde, 
a Thiers or Lamartine. He was a soldier by the 
inspiration of Heaven, as all great soldiers are. 
He had never known any other ambition, or 
dreamed any other dream. Other lads had talked 
of the bar, and the senate, and their glories. Bah ! 
Kow cold and tame they seemed ! ( What was the 
glory of a parliamentary triumph, In which words 
were the only weapons wielded by the combat- 
ants, compared with a hand-to-hand struggle, 
ankle deep in the bloody mire of a crowded 
trench, or a cavalry charge, before which a pha- 
lanx of tierce Afghans fled like frightened sheep 
upon a moor. Edward Arundel was a soidier, like 
the Duke of Wellington or Sir Colin Campbell, or 
Othello. The Moor's first lamentation when he 
believes that Desdemona is false, and his life is 
broken, is that sublime farewell to all the glories 
of the battle-field. It was almost the same with 
Edward Arundel. The loss of his wife and of 
his captaincy were blent and mingled in his mind, 
and he could only bewail the one great loss which 
left life most desolate. 

He had never felt the, full extent of his desola- 
tion until now, for heretofore he had been buoyed 
up by the hope of vengeance upon Paul March- 
mont; and now that his solitary hope had been 
realized to the fullest possible extent, there was 
nothing left — nothing but to revoke tl*J sacrifice 
he had made, and to regain his place in the In- 
dian army at any cost. 

He tried not to think of the possibility of thW. 
It seemed to him almost an infidelity toward his 
dead wife to dream of winning honors and dis- 
tinction, now that she, who would have been bo 
proud of any triumph won by him, was forever 

So, under the gray October sky he passed up 
and down, upon the grass-grown pathways, amidst 
the weeds and briers, the brambles and broken 
branches, that crackled as he trod upon them; 
aad late in the afternoon, when the day, which 
h id been sunless and cold, was melting into dusky 
twilight, he opened the low wooden gateway and 
went out into the road. An impulse which 
he could not resist, took him toward the river- 
bank, and the wood behind Marchmont Towers. 
Onee more, for tho last time in his life, perhaps 
16 ' 

he went down to that lonely shore. He went to 
look at the bleak, unlovely place which had been 
the scene of his betrothal. 

It was not that he had any thought of meeting 
Olivia Marchmont; he had dismissed her. from his 
mind ever since his last visit to the Vonely bpat- 
house. Whatever the mysiery of her life might 
be, her secret lay at the bottom of a black depth 
which the impetuous soldierdid not care to fathom- 
He did not want to discover that hideous secret. 
Tarnished honor, shame, falsehood, disgrace, 
lurked in the obscurity in which John March- 
; mont's widow had chosen to enshroud her life. — 
; Let them rest. It was not for him to drag away 
the curtain that sheltered his kinswoman fromthe 

He had no thought, therefore, of prying into 
any secrets that might be hidden in the pavilion 
; by the water. The fascination that lured him to 
j the spot was the memory of the past. He could 
; not go to Mary's graves but ho went, in as rev- 
! erent a spirit as he would have gone thither, to 

■ the scene of his betrothal, to pay his farewell 

■ visit to the spot which had been forever hallowed 
; by the confession of her innocent love. 
! It was nearly dark when he got to the river-side. 

He went by a. path which quite avoided the 
; grounds about Marchmont Towers — a narrow 

! foot-path, which served as a towing-path some- 
times when some black barge crawled by on 
its way out to the open sea. To-night the river 
was hidden by a mist — a white fog — that obscured 
j land and water; and it was only by the sound of 
> the horses' hoofs that Edward" Arundel had warn- 
'■ ing to step aside as a string of them went by, drag- 
; ging a chain that grated on the pebbles by the 

'Why should they say my darling committed su- 
icide?' thought Edward Arundel, as he groped his 
, way along the narrow pathway; 'it was on such 
; an evening as this that she ran away from home. 
{ What, more likely than that she lost the track and 
wandered into the river? Oh, my' own poor lost 
' one\ God grant it was so ! God grant it was by 
; His will, and not your own desperate act, that 
< you were lost to me !' 

; Sorrowful as the thought of his wife's death 

was to him, it soothed him to believe that that 

death might have been accidental. There was all 

the difference between sorrow and despair in the 

'. alternative. 

Wandering ignorantly and helplessly through 
this autumnal fog, Edward Arundel found himself 
at the boat-house before he was aware of its vi- 

There was a light gleaming from the broad 
north window of the painting-room, and a slant- 
ing line of light streamed out of the half-open 
door. In this lighted doorway Edward saw the 
' (igureofa girl— an unkempt, red-headed girl, with 
' a flat freckled face— a girl who wore a lavender- 
cotton pinafore and hobnailed boots, with a good 
, deal of brass. about the leather fronts, and a re- 
dundancy of rusty leather boot-lace twisted round 
the ankles. 

The young man remembered having seen this 
gul once in the village of Kemberling. She had 
been in Mrs. Weston's service as a drudge, and 
was supposed to have received her education in 
the Swampington union. 

This young lady was supporting herself against 
the half-open door, with her arms a-kimbo, ai.d 
; her hands planted upon her hips, m humble imi- 
I tion ot the matrons whom she had b«ea w 



sec lounging at their cottage-doors in the high { grinned maliciously as Mr. Arundel raised the 
street of Kemberling, when the labors of the day ^ light above his head, and looked about him. He 
were done. ' '.walked in and out of the two rooms. He stared 

Edward Arundel started at the sudden appari- { at the obsolete'chairs, the rickety tables, the di- 
tion of this damsel, lapidated damask curtains, flapping every now 

| Who are you girl ?' he asked; 'and what brings { and then in the wind that rushed in through the 
you to this place ?' 'crannies of the doors and windows. He looked 

He trembled as he spoke. A sudden agitation { here and there, like a man bewildered; much to 
had seized upon him, which he had no power to J the amusement of Miss Bessy Murre], who, with 
account for. It seemed as if Providence had { her arms crossed, and her elbows in the palms of 
brought him to this spot to-night, and had placed { her moist hands, followed him backward and for- 
this ignorant country girl in his way for some spe- { ward between the two small chambers, 
cial purpose. Whatever the secrets' of this place { 'There .was some one living here a week ago,' 
might be, he was to know them, it appeared, since { he said; 'some one who had the care of a — ' 
he had been led here, not by the promptings of cu- { He stopped suddenly. If he had guessed rightly 
riosity; but only by a reverent love for a scene {at the dark secret, it was better that it should re- 
that was associated with his dead wife. 'main forever hidden. This girl was perhaps 

'Who are you, girl V he asked again."* { more ignorant than himself. It was not for him 

'Oi be Bessy Murrel, Sir,' the damsel answered; { to enlighten her. 
'some on 'em calls me "Wuk-us Bet;" and I be { 'Do you know if any body has lived her lately ?' 
coom here to cle-an oop a bit.' {he asked. 

'To clean up what ?' { Bessy Murrel shook her head. 

'Thepaa-intin'room. There's a de-al o'moock ', 'Nobody has lived here — not that ci knows of,' 
about, and aw'm to fettle oop, and make all toidy {she replied; 'not to take their victuals, and such 
agen t' squire gets well.' {loike. Missus brings her work down sometimes, 

'Are you all alone here;' { and sits in one of these here rooms, while Muster 

'Allalo-an? Oh yes, Sir.' .{Poll does his pictur' paa-intin'; that's all oi 

'Have you been here long?' {knows of.' 

The girl looked at Mr. Arundel with a cunning { Edward went back to the painting-room, and 
leer, which was one of her 'wuk-us' acquire- {set down his candle. The mystery of those empty, 
ments. { chambers was no business of bis. He began to 

'Aw've been here off an' on ever since t' squire {think that his cousin Olivia wasmad, and that 
ke'ame,' she said. 'There's a deal o' cleanin' { her outbursts of terror and agitation had been 
down 'ere.' {only the raving of a mad- woman after all. There 

Edward Arundel looked at her sternly; but {had been a great deal in her manner during the 
there was nothing to be gathered from her stolid ;' last year that had seemed like insanity: The 
countenance after its agreeable leer had melted { presence of the child might have been purely ar- 
away. The young man might have scrutinizedi{ cidental; and his cousin's wild vehemence only a 

the figure-head of the black barge creeping slowly 
past upon the hidden river with quite as much 
chance of getting any information out of its plaj 
of feature. ' 

He walked past the girl into Paul MarchmtfhtV 
painting-room. Miss Bessy Muirell made no at- 
tempt to hinder him. She had spoken the truth 
as to the cleaning of the place, for the roon; 
smelled of soap-suds, and a pail and scrubbing- 
brush stood in the middle of the floor.. The younj: 
man looked at the door behind which he had 
heard the crying of the child. It was ajar, and 

> paroxysm of insanity. He sighed as he left Miss 
' Murrel to her scouring. The world seemed out 
"i of joint; and he, whose energetic nature fitted 
'■ him for the straightening of crooked things, had 

> no knowledge of the means by which it might te 
{ set right. 

'Good-by, lonely place,' he said; 'good-by to 
J the spot where my young wife first told me of her 

He walked hack to the cottage, where the 
bustle of packing and preparation was all over, 
{and where Mr. Morrison was entertaining a se- 

ttle stone steps leading up to it were wet, bearinej{ lect party of friends in the kitchen. Early the 
testimony to Bessy Murrill's industry. |{ next morning Mr. Arundel and his servant left 

Edward Arundel took the flaming tallow candlell Lincolnshire; the key of Kemberling Retreat was 
from the table in the painting-room and went up|{ given up to the landlord; and a wooden board, 
the steps into the pavilion. The girl followed, |{ flapping above the dilapidated trellis-work of Ihe 
but she did not try to restrain him, or to inter-|{ porch, gave notice that the habitation was to be 
fere with him. She followed him with hej f{ let. 
mouth open, staring at him after the manner of 
her kind, and she looked the very image of rustic 

With the flaring candle shaded by his left hand, 
Edward Arundel examined the two chambers in 
the pavilion. There was very little to reward j 
his scrutiny. The two small rooms were bare| 
and cheerless. The repairs that had been exe 
cuted had only gone so far as to make them tol 
erably inhabitable, and secure from wind and 
weather. The furniture was the same that Ed- 
ward remembered having seen on his last visit to 
the Towers; for Mary had been fond of sitting in 
one of the little rooms, looking out at the slow 
river and the trembling rushes on the shore, 
'f'here was-no trace of recent occupation in the 

^ *v rooms, no ashes in the grates. The t girl 



All the county, or, at least, all that part of 
the cbunty within a certain radius of Marchmont 
Towers, waited very anxiously for Mr. Paul 
Marchmont to make some move. The horse- 
whipping business had given§ quite a pleasant 
zest, a flavor of excitement, a dash of what it is 
the fashion nowadays to call 'sensation,' to the 
wind-up of the huDting-breakfast. Poor Paul's 
thrashing bad teen more racy and appetizing 
than the finest olives that ever grew, and his late 


guests looked forward to a great deal more ex- had done very little, damage to the, artist's flesh;' 
citement and 'sensation' before the business was ' but , it had slashed away his .manhood, as |he 
done with. Of course Paul Marchmont would 'sickle sweeps the flowers amidst the corn. ' 
do .something. He must make a stir; and the j He could never look up again. The'jthought 
saoner he made it the better. Matters would ; of going out of this house for (he'flrst time, and 
have to be explained; People expected to know < the horror ef confronting the altered faces of .his 
the cause of Edward Arundel's enmity; and of '. neighbors, was as dreadful to him as the antici- 
course the new master of the Towers would seejpation of that awful exit from the Debtqr's.-rjodr,; 
the propriety of setting himself right in the eyes ; which is the last step but one into eternity, must, 
of his influential acquaintance, his tenantry, and; be to the condemned criminal., . ",,. 

retainers, especially if he contemplated standing ; 'I shall go abroad,' he said to his mother, when 
for Swampington at the next general election, j he made his appearance in the. western drawing- 
This was what people said to each other. The jroom, a week after Edward's departure. 'I shall; 
scene at the hunting-breakfast was a most fertile , go on the Continent, mother; I .have taken a dis- 
topi'c of conversation. It was almost as good as < like to this place since that savage attacked. me 
a popular murder, and furnished scandalous par- j the other day. . •,»'■'. 

agraphs ad infinitum (or the provincial papers,} Mrs. Marchmont sighed. ,'' . '• " 

most of them beginning, 'It is understood — ' or j 'It will seem hard to lose ; you, Paul, now that 
'It has been whispered in our hearing that— -' or J you are rich. You were so constant to us through 
'Rochefoucault has observed that — ' Every body ; all our poverty; and we might be so happy* to- 
expected that Paul Marchmont would write to Igetber now. ' 

the papers, and that Edward Arundel wtauld j The artist was walking up and down the room, 
answer him in the papers; and that a brisk and (with his halids in the pockets of his braided vel : 
stirriDg warfare would be carried on in printer's j vet coat. He knew that in the conventional cos- 
ink— at least. But no line written by either of (tume of a well-bred, gentleman he showed to a 
the gentlemen appeared in arty one uf the county i disadvantage among other men; and he affected a 
journals; and by slow degrees it dawned upon 'picturesque and artistic style of dress, whose 
people that there was no further amusement to ^brighter hues and looser outlines lighted up his 
be got out of Paul's chastisement, and that the; pale facef and gave a grace to his spare figure, 
master of the Towers meant to take the thing} 'You think it worth something, then, mother?' 
quietly, and to swallow the horrible outrage, tak-' he said, presently, half kneeling, half lounging 
ing care to hide' any wry faces he made during in a deep-cushioned easy-chair near the table at 
that operation. . , \ which his mother sat. 'You think our money is 

Yes; Paul Marchmont let the. matter drop. 
The report was circulated that he was- very ill, 
and had suffered from a touch of brain -fever, 
wtiich kept him a victim to incessant delirium 

worth something to us ? All these chairs and ta- 
bles, this great rambling house, the servants' who 
wait upon us, and the carriages we 'ride, in, are 
worth something, are they not? they make us bap- 
until after Mr. Arundel had left the county, This! pier, I suppose. I know I always thought such 
junior was set afloat by Mr. Weston, the surgeon;' things made up the sum of happiness wherrl was 
andas he was the only person admitted to his '• poor. I have seen a hearse going away from a 
brother-in-law's apartrkent, it was impossible for i rich man's door, carrying his cherished wife, or 
any one to contradict his assertion. \ his only son, perhaps; and I've thought, "Ah'! 

The fox-hunting squires shrugged their shoul- ' but be has forty thousand a year !" Youarehap- 
ders, and I am sorry to say that the .epithets : pier here than you were in Charlotte Street— en; 
'nound,' 'cur,' 'sneak,' and 'mongrel,' were more' '; mother?' 

often applied to Mr. Marchmont than was con-'; 'Jim I happier?' exclaimed Mrs. Marchmont. 
sistent with Christian feeling on the part of the \ 'Need you ask me the question, Paul ? '' But it" is 
gentlemen who uttered tbem., But a man who j not so much for myself as for your sake that 1 
can swallow a sound thrashing, administered / value all this grandeur.' 

upon his own door-step, has to contend with the J She held out her long thin h&nd, which was 
prejudices of society, and must take the conse- covered with rings, some old-fashioned and com- 
quences of being in advance of his age. ; paratively valueless, others lately purchased by 

So, while his new neighbors talked about him, ' her devoted son, and very precious. The artist 
Paul Marchmont lay in his splendid chamber, J took the shrunken fingers, in his own, and raised 
with the frisking youths and maidens staring at ; them to his lips. ; '■•? 

him all day long, and simpering at him with; 'I'm very glad that I've made you. happy, mq- 
tbeir unchanging faces, until he grew sick at ; ther,' he said; 'that's something gained, at any 
heart, and began to loathe all this new grandeur, rate.' 

which had so delighted him a little time ago. He ) He left the fire-place, and walked slowly up and 
no longer laughed at the recollection of shabby J down the room, stopping nowand then to look out 
Charlotte Street. He dreamed one night that he. : at the wintry sky, or the flat expanse of turf be- 
was back again in the old bedroom, with the low it; but he was quite a different creature to 
painted deal furniture, and the hideous paper on ; that which he had been before his encounter with 
the walls, and that the Marchmont Towers mag- : Edward Arundel. ' 

nificence had been only a feverish vision; and he ; What was it worth, this fine house, with the 
was glad to be back in that familiar place, and ; broad flat before it? Nothing, if he had lost the 
was sorry on awaking to find that Marchmont ; respect and consideration of his neighbors.' He 
Towers was a splendid reality. wanted to be a great man as well as a rich one. 

There was only one faint red streak upon his He wanted admiration and flattery^ reverence and 
shoulders; for the thrashing had not been a bru- ; esteem ; not from poor people, whose esteem and 
tal one. It was disgrace Edward -Arundel had admiration were scarcely worth haying, but from 
wanted to inflict, not physical pain, the common- : wealthy squires, his equals or his superior? by birth 
place punishment with, which a man corrects his 1 and fortune. He ground his teeth, at the thought 
refractory horse. The lash of tljp hunting-whip : of his disgrace, ffohsd drunk of th« cupof^ir 



umph, and had lasted He very wine of life; and > 
at the moment when that cup was fullest it had 
been snatched away from him by the ruthless 
hand of his enemy. 

Christmas came, and gave Paul Marchmont a 
good opportunity of playing the country gentle- 
man of the nlden time. What was the cost, of 
a couple of bullocks, a few hogsheads of ale, and 
a wagon-load of coals, if by such a sacrifice the 
master of the Towers c«>uhl secur*- lor himself, 
the admiration due to a public benefactor r Paul 
gave carte blanche to the old servants: and tents 
were erected on the lawn, and monstrous bonfires 
blazed briskly in the frosty air; whiie the popu- 
lace, who would have accepted the bounties of a 
new Nero fresh from the burning of a modern 
Rome, drank to the health of their benefactor, 
and warmed themselves by the unlimited con- 
sumption of strong beer. 

Mrs. Marchmont and her invalid daughter as- 
sisted Paul in his attempt to regain the popu- 
larity he had lost upon the steps of ;he western 
terrace. The two women distributed square 
miles of flannel and blanketing among greedy 
claimants; they gave scarlet cloaks and puke- 
bonnets to old women; they gave an insipid feast. 
upon temperance principles to the child) en of the 
National Schools. And i.he v had their reward; 
for people began to sa\ that this PmiI Marchmont 
was a very noble fellow, after nil, -by Jove, Sir! 
and that fellow Arundel must, have' been in the 
wrong, Sir; and no doubt Marchmont had his own 
reasons for not resenting the outrage, Sir: and a 
great deal more to the like effect. 

After this roasting. of the two bullocks the wind 
changed altogether. Mr. Marchmont gave a 
great dinner-party upon New- Year's Day. He 
sent out thirty invitations, and had only two re- 
fusals. So the long dining-room was lil erl with 
all the notabilities of the district, atid Paul held 
his bead up once more, and rejoiced in his own 
grandeur. After all, ot.e horsewhipping can not 
annihilate a man with a fine estate and eleven 
thousand a year, if he knows how to make a 
splash with his money. Olivia Marchmont shared 
in none of the festivals that were held. Her 
father was very ill this winter; and she spent a 
good deal of her time at Svvampington Rectory, 
sitting in Hubert Arundel's room, and reading io 
him. But her presence brought very little com- 
fort to the sick man; for there, was something in 
his daughter's manner that filled him with inex- 
pressible terror; and lie would lie for bouts to- 
gether watching her blank face, and wondering 
at its horrible rigidity. What was it? What 
was the dreaful secret which had transformed 
this woman? He tormented himself perpetually 
with this question, but he could imagine no 
answer to it. 

Olivia Marchmont had never been the most 
lively or delightful of companions. If she could 
have* been Edward Arundel's wife, she would 
have been the noblest and truest wife that ever 
merged her identity into that of another, and 
lived upon the refracted glory of her husband's 

To any one who bad known Olivia's secret 
there could have been no sadder spectacle than 
this of her decay. The mind and body decayed 
together, bound by a mysterious sympathy. All 
womanly roundness disappeared from the spare 
figure, and Mrs. Marchmont 's black dresses hung 
about her in bw,c folds. Ibr long, dead, black 
Lair wa.3 pushed away Ituiu her thin face, and 

twisted into a heavy krot at the bark of her 
head. Every charm that she had ever possessed 
was gone. The oldest women generally retain 
some traits of their lost beauty, some faint- re- 
flection of the sun that has gone down to light 
up the soft twilight of age, and even glimmer 
through the gloom of death. Hut this woman's 
face letained no token of the past. No empty 
hull, with shattered bulwarks crumbled by the 
fury of li»rce. seas, cast on a desert shore to rot 
and perish there, w as ever more complete a wreck 
than she. was. Upon her face and figure, in every 
look and gesture, in the tone of every word she 
spoke, there was an awful something, worse ,than 
the seal of death. L'ittle by little the miserable 
truth dawned upon I lubert /it urirlel His daughter 
was mad"! lie knew this; but he kept the dread- 
ful know 'edu'o hidden in his own breast; a hide- 
ous secret, v. hose weight oppressed him like an 
actual burden. He kept, tfie secret; for it would 
hav5seerne.1l to him the most, ci uel treason against 
his daughter to have confessed his discovery to 
anv living creature, unless it. should be absolutely 
necessary to do so. Meanwhile he set himself Io 
watch Olivia, detaining her at the Herlory for a 
week together, in order that he might see her 1.1 
i all moods, under all phases. 

He found that there were no violent or out- 
rageous evidences of 1his mental decay. The 
mind had given way under the perpetual pressure 
of one set of thoughts. Hubert Arundel, in his 
ignorance of his daughter's secrets, could not 
' discover the cause of her decodence: but that 
cause, was very simple. If the body is a wonder- 
ful and' complex machine which must not -be 
' tampered with— surely if this is so, ,that still 
more, complex machine, the mind, must need 
' careful treatment. If such and such a course of 
djet is fatal 'to the body's health, may not son»e 
thoughts be equally fatal to the health of the 
< brain ? may not a monotonous recurrence of the 
same ideas be above all injurious t If by reason 
' of the peculiar nature of a man's labor he uses 
-one limb or one muscle, more than the test, 
; strange losses rise up to testify to that ill-usage, 
; the idle limbs wither, and the harmonious per- 
fection of Nature gives place to deformity. So 
■ the brain, perpetually pressed upon, forever 
I strained to iN -utmost tension by the wearisome 
.' succession of thoughts, becomes crooked and 
one-sided, always leaning one way, continually 
, tripping up the wretched thinker. 
> .lohn Marchmont's widow had only one set of 
! ideas. On every subject but that one which in- 
volved Edward Arundel and his fortunes her 
i memory had decayed. She asked her father the 
: same questions — commonplace questions relating 
to his own comfort, or to simple household mat- 
ters — twenty times a day, always forgetting (hat 
, he had answered her. She had that impatience 
\ as to the passage of time which is one of the most 
j painful signs of madness. She looked at her 
j watch ten times an hour, and would wander out 
; into the cheerless garden, indifferent to the hitter 
weather, in order to look at the clock in the 
; church-steeple, under the impression that her own 
] watch, and her father's, and all the time-keepers 
, in the bouse, were slow. 

She was sometimes restless, taking up one 

; occupation after another, to throw all aside with 

/ equal impatience, and sometimes immobile for 

hours together. But as she was never violent. 

never in any way unreasonable, Hubert Arundel 

; had not the heart to call science to hia aid, and 


(n betray her secret. The thought that his . and go on so, that one's ohllged lo say all sorts 
daughter's malady might be cured never entered of dreadful things about Mary's cousin for the 
his mind as within the range of possibility. There i sake of peace-. But, really, when 1 saw him one 
was nothing to cure; no delusions to be exorcised i day in Kemberl'mg, with a black velvet shooting- 
by medical treatment; no violent vagaries to be ; coat, and his beautiful smooth white hair and 
held in check by drugs arid nostrums. The ; auburn mustache, ] thought him most interesting, 
powerful intellect had decayed; its force and And so would \ou, Belinda, if \ou weren't so 
clearness were ujme. No drugs that ever grew [wrapped up in that doleful brother of mine.' 
upon this car h could restore that which was lost. ! Whereupon, of course. Miss Law ford had been 

This wax the conviction which kept the rector compelled 18 'declare that, she was not 'wrapped 
filent. It would have given him unutterable ; up' in Edward, whatever state of feeling that 
anguish lo have, told his daughter's secret to any ; obscure phase might signify; and to express. In 
Jiving being; but he would have endured that ' the vehemence of her denial, that, if any thing", 
misery if she could have been benefited thereby, she rather detested Miss Arundel's brother. Bv- 
lle most firmly believed that she could no 1 ., and the-by, did ;ou ever know a young lady who 
thai her slate was irremediable. could" understand the admiration aroused "in the 

'My poor g»l!' he thought to himself: 'how breast of, other young ladies for that most un- 
premd 1 was of her ten ycats ago!" I can do interesting' object, a brother? Or a gentleman 
nothing for her; nnthingcNcepl lo love and cherish u ho could enter with any warmth of sympathy 
her, and hide her humiliation from the world.' into his frieYid's feelings ' respecting the uuburn 

But Hubert Arundel was not allowed to do tresses or the Grecian nose of 'a sister?' Be- 
even this much for the daughter he loved; for:)inda Lawford, I say, knew something of the 
when Olivia had been wilh him a little more ! story of Mary Arundel's death, and she implored 
than a week, Paul Marehmont and his mother ; her father to reject all hospitalities offered by 
drove over to Swampington Rectory one morning Paul Marehmont. 

arid carried her away with them. The rector 'You won't go to the Towers, papa dear ?' she 
then saw for the first time that his once strong- ; said, with her hands clasped upon her father's 
minded daughter uas completely under the do-arm, her cheeks kindling, and her eyes filling 
minion of these two people, and that they knew • ; with tears as she spoke to him: 'you won't go 
the nature of her malady quite as well as be did. 'and fit at Paul Marcfhmont's table, and drink 
He resi-ted her return to the Towers; but his his wine, and shake hands with him? I know 
resistance was useks*. She, submitted herself that he had something to do with Mary Arundel's 
willingly to her new friends, declaring that she ' death. He had, indeed, papa. 1 don't mean 
was better in their house than any where else. ; any thing that the world calls crime; 1 don't 

While the master of the Towers reasserted his mean any act of open violenpe. But be was 
grandeur, and made stupendous efforts to regain ; cruel to her, papa; he was • cruel to her. He 
the ground he had Jost, Edward Arundel wan-, tortured her and tormented her until she — ' The 
dered far away in the depths of Brittany, travel- (girl paused for a moment, and her voice faltered 
ing on foot, and making himself familiar with ' a little. 'Oh, how I wish that I had known her, 
the simple peasants, who were ignorant of his, papa,' she cried, presently, 'that I might have 
troubles. He had sent Mr. Morrison down to stood by her and comforted her all through that 
Dangerfield with the greater part of his luggage; sad time !' ~~ 

but he had not the heart to go back himself — yet The major looked down at his daughter with a 
a while. He was afraid of his mother's sympa- tender smile — a smile that was a little significant 
thy, and he went away into the lonely Breton perhaps, but full of love and admiration, 
villages to try and cure himself of his great grief : 'You would have stood by Arundel's poor little 
before he began life again as a soldier. It was wife, my dear ?' he said. 'You would stand by 
useless for him to strive against his voca'tion. her now, if she were alive, and needed your 
Nature had made him a soldier, and nothing else; friendship?' 

and wherever there was a good cause "to be 'I would indeed, papa,' Miss Lawford an- 
fought for his place was on the battle-field. swered, resolutely. 

'1 believe it, my dear; I believe it wilh all 

. ^..^ _^ '.my heart. You are a good girl, my Linda; you 

are a noble girl. You are as good as a son to mc, 
my dear.' 
CHAPTER XXX. (I. Major Lawford was silent for a. few minutes, 

mis. ,.AWFO.u. speak. r.:r ».m.. {'. oldil ' , K hi * d a»S hte >' in his arms and pressing his 

lips upon her broad forehead. 

Major Lawford and his blue-eyed daughters 'You are fit to be a soldier's daughter, my 
were not among those guests who accepted Paul , darling,' he said, ' or— or a soldier's wife.' 
Marchmont's princely hospitalities Belinda Law-; He kissed her once more, and then left her 
ford had never heard the story of Edward's lost! sighing thoughtfully as he went away, 
bride as he himself could have told it; but she-; This is how it was that neither Major Law- 
had heard an imperfect version of the sorrowful ! ford nor any of his family were present, at those 
history from Letitia, and that, young lady had , splendid entertainments which Paul Marehmont 
informed her friend of Edward's animus against , gave to his new friends. Mr. Marehmont knew 
the new master of the Towers. almost as well as the Lawfords themselves why 

'The poor dear foolish boy will insist upon they did not come, and the absence of them at 
thinking thai Mr. Marehmont was at the bottom , his "glittering board made his bread bitter to him 
of it all,' she had said, in a confidential chat '; and his wine tasteless. He wanted these people 
with Belinda, 'somehow or other; but whether : as much as the others— more than the others 
he was, or whether he wasn't, I'm sure ] can't ; perhaps; for they had been Edward ArundeJ'* 
~ay But if one attempts to IhW: Mr. March- . friends; and he wanted Ihcm to turn their back^ 
uionl'^ part with Ldivard, h«j doca g<;t . 3 n violent upon the young man, and join in the general 


outcry against his violence and brutality. The dence to liave prevented all this; and Uien he, 
absence "of Major Lawford at the lighted ban- 1'aul, would have been still in Charlotte. Street, 
quel-table tormented tins modern rich man as Fitzroy Square, patiently waiting; for a friendly 
the presence of Mordecai at tiie gate tormented lift upon the high road of life. Nobody could say 
Human. It was not enough that all the others that he had ever been otherwise than patient, 
should come if these staid away, and by their Nobody could say that he had ever intruded him- 
absence tacitly testified to their contempt for the self upon his rich cousins at the Towers, or had 
master of the Towers. been heard to speculate upon h^ possible inher- 

He met Belinda sometimes on horseback with itance of the estate; or that he .had, in short, 
the old grey-headed groom behind her, a fearless done anything but that which the best, truest, 
young Amazon, breasting the January winds, . most conscientious and disinterested of mankind 
with her blue eyes sparkling, and her auburn hair , should do. 

blowing away from her candid face: he met her ' in the course of that bleak, frosty January, Mr. 
and looked out at her from the luxurious ba- Marchmont sent h\s mother and his sister Lavinia 
rouche in which it was his pleasure to loll by his , to make a call at the Grange. The Grange peo- 
mother's side, half buried among soft furry rugs , pie had never called upon Mrs. Marchmont; but 
and sleek leopard-skins, making the chilly at- ■ Paul did not allow any flimsy ceremonial law to 
mosphere through which he rode odorous with; stand in his way when he had a purpose to 
the scent of perfumed hair, and smiling over ' achieve. So the ladies went to the Grange and 
cruelly delicious criticisms in newly-cut reviews, were politely received; for Miss Lawford and her 
He looked out at this fearless girl, whose friends ; mother were a great deal too innocent and noble- 
so obstinately stood by Edward Arundel; and minded to imagine that th?se pale-faced, deli- 
the cold contempt upon Miss Lawford 's face out ; cate-looking women could have had any part, 
him more keenly than the sharpest wind of that either directly or indirectly, in that cruel treat- 
biticr January. . * ■ raent which IiskI driven Edward's young wife 

Then he look counsel with his womankind, ;' from her home. Mrs. Marchmont and Mrs. Wes- 
not telling them his thoughts, fears, doubts, or > ton were kindly received, therefore; and in a lit- 
wishes — it was not his habit to do that — but ; tie conversation with Belinda about birds, and 
taking llitir ideas, and only telling them so much •; dahlias, and worsted-work, and the most inno.- 
as it was necessary for them to know in order ■', cent subjects imaginable, the wily Lavinia con- 
that they might be useful to him. Paul March- ; trived to lead up to Miss Letitia Arundel, and 
mont's life was regulated by a few rules, so sim- '>. thence, by the easiest conversational short cut, to 
pie that a child might have learned them; indeed, >, Edward and his lost wife. Mrs. Weston was- 
1 regret to say that some children are very apt ' obliged to bring her cambric handkerchief out of 
pupils in that school of philosophy to which the < her muff when she talked about her cousin Mary; 
master of Marchmont Towers belonged, and t but she was a clever woman, and she had taken 
cause astonishment to' their elders by the preco- ; to heart Paul's pet maxim about the folly of un- 
city of their intelligence. Mr. Marchmont might j: necessary lies; and she was so candid as entirely to 
have inscribed upon a very small scrap of parch-; disarm Miss Lawford, who had a school-girlish 
ment the moral maxims by which he regulated '. notion that every kind of hypocrisy and falsehood 
his dealings with mankind. •; was outwardly visible in a servile and slavish 

'Always conciliate,' said this philosopher, manner. She was not upon her guard against 
'Never tell an unnecessary lie. Be agreeable^ those practiced adepts in the arts of deception, 
and generous to those who serve you. N. B. No;I who have learned to make that subtle admixture 
good carpenter would allow his tools to get! of truth and falsehood which defy detection, like 
rjsty. Make yourself master of the opinions of; some fabrics in 'whose woof silk and cotton are 
others, but hold your own tongue. Seek to ob- ! so cunningly blended that only a practiced eye 
tain the maximum of enjoyment with the mini- '■) can' discover the inferior material, 
mum of risk.' , < So when Lavinia dried her eyes and put her 

Such golden saws as these did Mr. Marchmont ; handkerchief back in her muff, and said, betwixt 
make for his own especial guidance; and he hoped '<) laughing and crying, 

to pass smoothly onward upon the railway of life, 'i 'Now you know, my dear Miss Lawford, you 
riding in a fust-class carriage, on the greased* > musn't think that I would for a moment pretend 
wheels of a very easy conscience. As for any 'i. to be sorry that my brother has come into this 
unfortunate fellow-travelers pitched out of the ', fortune. Of course any such pretense as that 
carriage-window in the eourse of the journey, or \ would be ridiculous, and quite useless into the 
left lonely and helpless at desolate stations on ; bargain, as it isn't likely any body would believe 
the way, Providence, and not Mr. Marchmont, <! me. Paul is a dear, kind creature, the best of 
was responsible for their welfare. Paul had a \ brothers, the most affectionate of sons, and de- 
high appreciation of Providence, and was fond of | serves any good fortune that could fall to his lot; 
talking — very piously, as some people said; very ' but I am truly sorry for that poor little girl. I 
impiously, as others secretly thought — about the < am truly sorry, believe me, Miss Lawford; and I 
inestimable Wisdom which governed all the af- \ only regret that Mr. Weston and I did not come 
fairs of this lower world. Nowhere, according Ho Kemberling sooner, so that I might have been 
to the artist, had the hand of Providence been \ a friend to the poor little thing; for then, you 
more clearly visible than in this matter about ( know, I might have prevented that foolish runa- 
Paul's poor little cousin Mary. If Providence ; way match, out of which almost all the poor 
had intended John Marchmont's daughter to be a ! child's troubles arose. Yes, Miss Lawford; J 
happy bride, a happy wife, the prosperous mis- ! wish 1 had been able to befriend that unhappy 
tress of that stately habitation, why all that sad J child, although, by my so doing Paul would have 
business of old Mr. Arundel's sudden illness, Ed- \ been kept out of the fortune he now enjoys — for 
ward's hurried journey, the railway accident, and \ some. time, at any rate. I say for some time, be- 
all the complications that had thereupon arisen ?! cause I do not believe that Mary Marchmont 
Nothing would have been easier than for Fi ovi- ; would have lived to be old tinder the happiest cir^ 



cumstanees. Her mother died very young;, and 
her father, and her father's father, were con- 

Then Mrs. Weston took occasion, incidentally, 
of course, to allude to her brother's goodness; 
hut even then she was on her guard, and took 
care not to say too much. 

'The worst actors arc those who overact their 
parts.' That was another of Paul Marchmont's 
golden maxims. 

'I don't know what my brother may be to the 
rest of the world,' Lavinia said, 'but I know how 
good he is to those who belong to him. I should 
be ashamed to tell you all he has done for Mr. 
Weston and me. He gave me this cashmere 
shawl at the beginning of the winter, and a set of 
sables fit for a duchess; though I told him they 
were not at all the thing for a village surgeon's 
wife, who-keeps only one servant and dusts her 
own best parlor. ' 

And Mrs. Marchmont talked of her son, with 
no loud enthusiasm, but with a tone of quiet con- 
viction that was worth any money to Paul. To 
have an innocent person, some one not in the se- 
cret, to play a small part in the comedy of his 
life, was a desideratum with the artist. His 
mother had always been this person, this uncon 7 
scious actor, instinctively falling into the action 
of the play, and shedding real tears, and smiling 
actual smiles — the most useful assistant to a great 

But during the whole of the visit nothing was 
said as to Paul's conduct toward his unhappy 
cousin; nothing Was said either to praise or to ex- 
culpate; and when Mrs. Marchmont and her 
daughter drove away in one of the new equipages 
which Paul had selected for his mother, they left 
only a vague impression in Belinda's breast. She 
didn't quite know what to think. These people 
were so frank and candid, they had spoken of 
. Paul with such real affection, that it was almost 
impossible to doubt them. Paul Marchmont 
might be a bad man, but his mother and sister 
loved him, and surely they were ignorant of his 

Mrs. Lawford troubled. herself very little about 
this unexpected morning' call. She v was an ex-, 
cellent, warm-hearted, domestic creature, and 
thought a great deal more about the grand ques- 
tion as to whether she shquld have new damask 
curtains for the drawing-room, or send the old 
ones to be dyed; or whether she should withdraw 
her custom from the Kemberling grocer, whose 
'best black' at four and sixpence was really now 
so very inferior; or whether Belinda's summer 
silk-dress could be cut down into a frock for Isa- 
bella to wear in the winter evenings — than about 
the rights or wrongs of that story of the horse- 
whipping Which had been administered to Mr. 

'I'm sure those .Marchmont Towers people 
seem very nice,' my dear, the lady said to Be- 
linda, 'and I really wish your papa would go and 
dine there. You know 1 like him to dine out a 
good deal in the winter, Linda; not that I want 
to save the housekeeping money, only it is so 
difficult to vary the dinners for a man who has 
been in the army, and has had mess-dinners and 
a French cook.' 

But Belinda stuck fast to her colors. She was 
a soldier's daughter, as her father said, and she 
was almost as good as a son. The major meant 
this latter remark for very high praise; for the 
gr«at grief of hit life bad been the want of a boy's 

brave face at his fire-side. She was as good as i 1 
son; that is to say, she was braver and more out. 1 
spoken than most women, although she was femi 1 
nine and gentle withal, and by no means strong 
minded. She would have fainted, perhaps, a' n 
the first sight of blood upon a battle-field; hi* 
she would have bled to death with the calm lit 
roism of a martyr rather than have been fal/>e t ■' 
a noble cause. 

'I think papa is quite right not to go to March 
mont Towers, mamma,' she said; 'the artfu, 
minx omitted to state that it was by reason o 
her entreaties her father had staid away. '1 thin! 
he is quite right. Mrs. Marchmont and Mrs 
Weston may be very nice, and of course it isn' 
likely they would be cruel to poor young Mr?' 
Arundel, but I know that Mr. Marchmont mil-' 
have been unkind to that poor girl, or Mr Arm 
del would never have done what he did.' 

It is in the nature of good and brave nien t 
lay down their masculine rights when they leav 
their hats in. the hall, and to submit themselve 
meekly to feminine government. It is only th 
whippersnapper, the sneak, the coward out c 
doors, who is a tyrant at home. See how meekl 
the Conqueror of Italy went home, to his charm 
ing Creole wife ! See how pleasantly the Libei 
ator of Italy lolls in the carriage of his goldei 
haired Empress, when the young trees in that fa i 
wood beyond the triumphal arch are green in th 
bright spring weather, and all the hired vehicle 
in Paris are making toward the cascade ! Maj< 
Lawford 's wife was too gentle, and too busy wi 
her store-room and her domestic cares, to tyra,'. 
nize over her lord and master; but the major v. 
duly hen-pecked by his blue-eyed daughters, a 
went here and there as they dictated. 

So he staid away from Marchmont Towers 
please Belinda, and only said, 'Haw,' 'Ye 
'Ton my honor, now!' 'Bless my soul !' wf 
his friends told him of the magnificence of Pa/ 
dinners. '. 

But although the major and his eldest daug) 
did not encounter Mr. Marchmont in his « 
house, they met him sometimes on the nn 
ground of other people's dining-rooms, and i, 
one especial evening at a pleasant little dip 
party given by the rector of the parish in w,' 
the Grange was situated. 

Paul made himself particularly agreeable 
this occasion; but in the brief interval beforf 
ner he was absorbed in a conversation with 
Davenant, the rector, upon the subject of ec 
astical architecture — he knew every thing 
could talk about every thing, this dear Paul i 
made no attempt to approach Miss Lawfordf 
only looked at her now and then, with a fu 
^oblique glance out of his almond-shaped,,, 
gray eyes; a glance that was wisely hidden, 
light auburn lashes, for it had an unpleasr ' 
semblance to the leer of an evil-natured ' 
Mr. Marchmont contented himself with k' 
this furtive watch upon Belinda, whileshe 
gayly with the rector's two daughters in a 
ant corner near the piano; and as the artis 
Mrs. Davenant down to the dining-room, a, 
next her at dinner, he had no opportunity c 
ternizing with Belinda during that meal; f 
young lady was divided from him by the ' 
length of the table, and, moreover, very mi 1 
cupied by the exclusive attentions of- two c 
i looking officers from the neareft garrison' 
who were afflicted with extreme youth, and 
l painfully conscious of their degradrd «ttte 



rie<t notwithstanding to carry it off' with a high ; 'I don't think you know any thing of the real 
,and, and affected the opinions of used-up fifty, story, Mr. Pallisser,' Belinda said, boidly, to the 
: Mr. iVIarehmont had none of his womankind ; half-fledged ensign. 'If you did, I'm sure you 
/ith him at this dinner; for his mother and in- , 'would admire Mr. Arundel's conduct instead of 
falid sister had neither of them felt strong enough .blaming it. Mr. Marchmont' fully deserved the 
,) come, and Mr. and Mrs. Weston had not been ; disgrace which Edward — which Mr. Arundel in- 
sivited. The artist's special object in coming to dieted upon him.' 

:iiis dinner was the conquest of Miss Belinda Law- • The words were still upon her lips when Paul 
«rd. She sided with Edward Arundel against > Marchmont himself came softly through the flick- 
iim. She must be made to believe Edward wrong, iering fire-light to the low chair upon which Be- 
stid himself right; or she might go about spread- j linda sat. He came behind her, and laying his 
,fg her opinions, and, doing him mischief. Beyond J hand lightly upon the scroll-work at the back of 
-hat, lie had another idea about this auburn-haired, her chair, bent over her, and said , in a low, cori- 
ilue-cved Belinda; and he looked to this dinner as fidential voice: 

likely to afford him an opportunity of laying the 'You are a noble girl, Miss Lawford; I am sorry 
joundatinn of a very diplomatic scheme, in which that you should think ill of me; but 1 like you for 
, I iss Lawford should unconsciously become his having spoken so frankly. You are a most nob!e 
a>ol. He was vexed at being placed apart from 'girl. You are worthy to be your father's dau;h- 
r er at the dinner-table, but he concealed his vex- ter.' 

itiOn; arid he was aggravated by the rector'sold- ■; This was said with a tone of suppressed emo- 
iashioned hospitality, which detained the gentle- tion; but it was quite a random shot. Paul didn't 
lien over their wine for some time after the ladies know any thing about the major, except that he 
tr'ft the dining-room. But the opportunity that he ;had a comfortable income, drove a neat dog cart, 
wanted came nevertheless, and in a manner that land was often seen riding on the flat Lincolnshire 
he had not anticipated. roads with his eldest daughter. For all Paul knew 

The two callow defenders of their country had :to the contrary, Major Lawford might have been 
neaked out of the dining-room, and rejoined the the veriest bully and coward who had ever made 
r.idies in the cozy countrified drawing-rooms. Be- those about him miserable; but Mr. Marchmont's 
lind.i and her two companions were very polite to tone as good as expressed that he was intimately 
[he helpless young wanderers from the dining- acquainted with the old soldier's career, and had 
a>orn; and they talked pleasantly enough of all ; long admired and loved him. It was one of Paul's 
ti anner of things, until somehow or other the con- - happy inspirations, this allusion to Belinda's fa- 
m-rsalion came round to the Marchmont Towers ther; one of those bright touches of color laid on 
landal, and Edward's treatmentof his lost wife's ' a skillful recklessness, and giving sudden 
psman. . brightness to the whole picture; a little spot of 

t One of the young men had been present at the vermilion 'dabbed upon the canvas with the point 
^nting'-breakfast an that bright October morning, of the pallet-knife, and lighting up all the land- 
aid he was not a little proud of his superior ac- scape with sunshine. 

jiaintance with the whole business. 'You know my father?' said Belinda, surprised. 

•I was the-aw, Miss Lawford,' he said. 'I was 'Who does not know him?' cried the artist. 'Do 

the tew-wace after b weak fast — and a vewy ex- you think, Miss Lawford, that it is necessary to 

■.lent bwtakfast it was, 1 ass-haw you; the still sit at a man's dinner-table before you know what 

.selle was weally admiwable, and Marchmont ,; he is? 1 know your father to be a good man and 

e some Madewa that immeasurably surpasses .'a brave soldier, as well as I know that the Duke 

& thing I can induce my wine-merchant to send • of Wellington is a great general, though I never 

x -l was on the tew-wace, and I saw Awundel < dined at Apsley House. I respect your father, 

it- in' up the steps, awful pale, and gwaspin'his' Miss Lasvford; and I have been very much di>- 

, e 'p; and I was a witness of all the west that oc- , tressed by his evident avoidance of me and mine.' 

n ed; and if I'd been Marchmont I should have ; This was coming to the point at once. Mr. 

,. Awundel before he left the pawk, if I'd had Marchmont's manner was candor itself. Belinda 

iving fow it, Miss Lawford; for 1 should have i 'looked at him with widely-opened, wondering 

i b'Jove, that my own sense of honaw de- eyes. She was looking for the evidence of his 

a ded the sacwifice. Howevaw. Marchmont wickedness in hjs face. I think she half expected 

j is a vewy 

that Mr. Marchmont would have corked eye- 
; brows, and a slouched hat like a stage ruffian. 

good fella; so I suppose it's ail ■ 
t as far a's he goes; but it was a bwutal busi- 

■ altogethaw, and that fella Awundel must ' She was so innocent, this simple young Belinda, 
scoundwel.' , that she imagined wicked people must necessarily 

j.linda could not bear this. She had borne a look wicked. 

v deal already. She had been obliged to sit, Paul Marchmont saw the wavering of her mind 
r ,ry often, and hear Kdward Arundel's con- in that half-puzzled expression, and he went on 
jdiscussed by Thomas, Richard, and Henry, boldly. 

, v body else who chose to talk about it; and '1 like your father, Miss Lawford,' he said; 'I 
,ul been patient, and had held her peace, with '■ like him, and I respect him; and I want to know 
r ,eart bumping indignantly in her breast, and ; him. Olher people may misunderstand me, if they 
ninate crimson blushes burning her cheeks, please I can't help their opinions. Thetrulhis 

generally strongest in the end; and I can alford lo 
wxit. But 1 can not afford to forfeit the friend- 
ship of a man 1 esteem; I can not afford to he mis- 
understood by your f;iiher, M i-s Law ford ; and I 
have been very much pained — je», very much 

_ _ % pained — by the manner in which the major has 

B ,> blame Edward Arundel," the brave soldier, I repelled my little attempts at friendliness.' 
>oble Indian hero, the devoted lover and hits- J Belinda's heart smote her. She knew'thatit 
thovaliantavengerofhindeadwife's wrongs. J wbs her influence that had kejt her father away 

,he could not submit to hear a beardless, pale- 
', and rather weak-eyed young ensign— who 
5 ever done any greater service for his Queen 
,o\intry than to cry 'Shid rcpii!' toadetach- 
r of rawrecruits in a barrack-yard, in the early 
c ,nessof a winter's morning— take upon him- 


from Marahmont Towers. This young la iy was \ Arundel so nearly lost his life. I can not tell 
verv i onscientious. She was a Christia i", to >■ f you how sincerely J regret the misconception that 
and a certain sentence touching wrongful judg- ; has arisen in his mind. Because I have profited 
menu tosj up against, her while Mr. March'ii.init J by the death of John Marchmont's daughter this 
was speaking, if she liad wronged this man; ifjimpetuous young husband imagines — what? I 
Edward Arundel bad been misled "by his passionate J can not answer that question; nor, can he him- 
grief fur Mary; if she bad been deluded by I'd- '', self, it seems, since h»has made no definite state- 
ward's error— how very badly Mr Marcli'mont ; merit of his wrongs to any living being.' 
had been treated between them ! She didn'l say ', The artist looked more sharply than ever at 
any thing, but sat looking thoughtfully at the flie-.; Belinda's listening face There was no change 
and Paul saw that she was more and more per-; in its expression. The same wondering look, 
plexed. This was just what the artist wanted. ; the same-perplexity— that was all. 
To talk his antagonist into a state of intellectu^;'* 'When I say that I regret the young man's 
fog was almost always his manner of commencing; folly, Miss Law ford,' Paul continued, 'believe 
an argument. ; me it is chiefly on his account rather than my 

Belinda was silent, and Paul seated himself in ; own. Any insult which he can iifllict upon me 
a chair close to hers. The callow ensigns had ; can only rebound upon himself, since every body 
gone into the lamp-lit front, drawing-room, and ; in Lincolnshire knows that I am in the right, and 
were busy turning over the 'e-ves— and never; he in the wrong ' 

turning.them over at the right moment — ofathun-J Mr.' Marchmont was going on very smoothly; 
dering duet which the Misses, Davenant weie per-^but at this point Miss Lawford, who had by no 
'forming for the edification of their papas visitors. \ means deserted her colors, interrupted his easy 
Miss Lawford and Mr. Marchmont were alone,; process. 

therefore, in that cozy inner chamber, and a veiy ', 'It remains to be proved who is right and who 
pretty picture they made; the auburn-haired girl, ', wrong.'Mr. Marchmont,' she said. 'Mr Arundel 
and the pale.sentimental-looking artist silling side ; is the brother of my friend. I can not easily be- 
by side in the glow -of the low lire, with a back- ; lievo him to have done wrong.' 
ground of crimson curtains and gleaming picture-; Paul looked at her with a smile— a smile that 
frames; winter flowers piled in grim Indian jars;, brought hot blushes to her face; but she returned 
the fitful light flickering now and then upon one; his look without flinching. The brave blue eyes 
sharp angle of the high car'vedmantle-piece, with ', looked full at the narrow gray eyes sheltered un- 
all its liner. of antique china; arid the rest of the. 'der pale auburn lashes, and their steadfast gaze 
room in sombre shadow. Faul had the field all ; did not waver. * 

to himself, and felt that victory would be easy ', 'Ah, Miss Lawford,' said the artist, still 
He. began to talk about Edward Arundel. ; smiling, 'when a young man is handsome, brave, 

Jf he had said one word against the young ', chivalrous, and generous-hearted, it is very diffi- 
soldier, 1 think this impetuous girl, who had not ) cult to convince a woman that he can do 
yet learned to count the cost of what she did, { wrong. Edwaid Arundel h'*s done wrong. His 
would h,ave been passionately eloquent in defense ; ultra Quixotism has made him blind to" the folly 
of her friend's brother — for no otner re..son than ' of his own acts. I cin afford to forgive him. 
tl^at he was the brother o! her friend, of course;; But 1 repeat that I regret his infatuation about 
what other reason should she have for defending ' this poor lost girl far more'upon his account 
Mr. Arundel? ; than on my own; for I know— at least, I venture 

But Paul M^archmonl did not give her any ; : to think — that a way lies open to him of a hap- 
occasion for indignation. On the contrary, h« ; pier and a better life than he could evtfr have 
spoke in praise of the hot-headed young soldier ', known with my poor chi dish cousin Mary March- 
who had assault- d him, making all manner of ' mont 1 have reason to know that he has formed 
excu->ei for the young man's violence, and using , another attachment, and that it is only a chival- 
that tone of calm superiority with which a man ' ro'js delusion about that poor girl — whom he was 
of the worul might naturally talk about a foolish [ never really in love wi<h, and whom he only 
boy. ; married because of some romantic notion inspired 

'He has been very unreasonable, Miss Law-: by my cousin .John— that withholds him from 
, ford, 'Paul said, by-and-by; 'he has been very : that oilier and brighter prospect.' 
unreasonable, and has most grossly insulted me. ; He was silent fur a few moments, and then Ite 
But, ii» spite of all, I belifeve him to be a iery ; scl j,| hastily 

K?'T gfell r ;aDdIca \T find X^ in .r , '«^' : rfon me, Miss La'wford; I have been be- 
heartto be really angry with him What Ins rf , : in ^ m „ ct , that , had better have 

.^ not know.'' 6 " 3 '' 06 agiU me maJ 3 ' '--ft unsaid, more especially to you. IV 

The furtive glaVce from the long, narrow gray IIc hesitated a little, as if embarrassed, and 
eyes kept close watch upon Belinda's face as then rose -arid looked into the next room, where 
Paul, said this. Mr. Marchmont wanted to as- 'he duet had been followed by a solo, 
certain exactly how much Belinda knew of that; One of the rector's daughters ca»e toward 
grievance of Edward's; but he could see per- \ the inner drawing-room, followed by a callow 
plexity only in her face. .She kn«w nothing def- ' ensign. 

mite, therefore; she had only heard Edward talk '• 'We want .Belinda to sing,' exclaimed Miss 
vaguely of his wrongs. Paul Marchmont was < , Davermnt. 'We want you to sing, you tiresome 
convinced of this, and he went oTi boldly now,' Belinda, instead of hiding yourself in that dark 
for he felt that the ground w, all rlear'before | room all the evening.' f 

him. Blinda came out of the darkness with her 

'This foolish young soldier c".ot.»"s to be nnjry chee s flushed and her eyelids drooping Her 
with me because of a ca.aini! , „hieh J w as as heart was beating so fast as to make it quite im- 
powerless to avert as to prevent t;, a i. accident passible to speak just jet, or to sing either. But 
upon the Southwestern Railway by which Mr. ' she sat down btfere the piano, and, with klfldj 
17 : - 


that trembled in spite of herself, began to play 'stopped, and then he walked quietly homeward 
one of her pet sonatas. ; in the gloaming. The early spring evening was 

Unhappily Beethoven requires precision of \ bleak and chill. The blacksmith's fire roared at 
touch in the pianist who is bold enough to seek j him as he went by the smithy. All the lights in 
to interpret him; and upon this occasion I am j the queer latticed windows twinkled and blinked 
compelled to admit that Miss Lawford 's finger- j at him, as if in friendly welcome to the wan- 
ing was eccentric, not to i'ay ridiculous — in com- ; derer. He remembered them all — the quaint, 
Dion parlance, she made a mess of it; and just ! misshapen, lop-sided roofs; the tumble-down 
as she was going to break down, friendly Clara ) chimneys; the low doorways, that had sunk 
Darenant cried out: _ \ down below the level of the village street, until 

'That won't do, Belinda! We want you to all the front parlors became cellars, and strange 
sing, not to play. You are trying to cheat us^. pedestrians butted their heads against the flower- 
We would rather have one of Moore's melodies Wots in the bed-room windows; the withered iron 
than all Beethoven's sonatas.' , frame and pitiful oil-lamp hung out at the corner 

So Miss Lgwford, still blushing, with her eye- \ of the street, and making a faint spot of feeble 
lids still drooping, played Sir John Stevenson's J light upon the rugged pavement; mysterious little 
simple-symphony, and, in a fresh swelling voice j shops in diamond-paned parlor windows, where 
that filled the room with melody, began: {Dutch dolls and stationery, stale ginger-bread 

f and pickled-cabbage, were mixed up with wooden 
' °h ^ e da , ys are gone when beauty bright \ peg-tops, rickety paper-kites, green apples, and 

wfe y n h ^efro f Te:Wo mm o r ntm nig ht ) j string-they were all familiar to him. ' 

Was love, still love.' J He passed unquestioned by a wicket at the 

{side of the great gates. The fire-light was rosy 
And Paul Marchmont, sitting at the other end {in the windows of the lodge, and he heard a wo- 
of the room, turning over Miss Davenaht's scrap- (man's voice singing a monotonous song to a 
book, looked up through his auburn lashes, and {sleepy child. Every where in this pleasant Eng- 
smiled at the beaming face of the singer. {land there seemed to be the glow of cottage- 

He felt that he had improved the occasion. { fires, and friendliness, and love, and home. The 
'I am not 'afraid of Miss Lawford now,' he \ young man sighed as he remembered that great 
thought to himself. { stone mansion far away in dismal Lincolnshire, 

This candid, fervent girl was only another { and thought how "happy he might have been in 
piece iri the schemer's game of chess, and he { this bleak spring twilight, if he could have sat 
s''.w a way of making her useful in the attain-' by Mary Marchmont's side in the western draw- 
ment of that great end which, in the strange { ing-room, watching the fire-light and the shadows 
simplicity of cunning, he beljeved to be the one \ trembling on her fair young face, 
purpose of every man's life — Self-Aggrandize- J It never had been, and it never was to be. 
ment. {The happiness of a home; the sweet sense of 

It never for a moment entered into his mind { ownership; the delight of dispensing pleasure to 
that Edward Arundel was any more real than he? others; all the simple domestic joys which make 
was himself. There can be no perfect eompre-' 1'fe beautiful — had never been known to John 
hension where there is no sympathy. Paul be-' Marchmont's daughter since that early time in 
lieved that Edward had tried to become master? which she shared her father's lodging in Oakley 
of Mary Marchmont's heritage, and had failed,/ Street, and went out in the cold December morn- 
and w»as angry because of his failure. He be-' '"g to buy rolls for Edward Arundel's breakfast, 
lieved this passionate young man to be a schemer {From the bay-window of his- mother's favorite 
like himsejf, only a litt'e more impetuous and' sitting-room the same red light that he had seen 
blundering in his manner of going to work. ' m every lattice in the village streamed out upon 

{the growing darkness of the lawn. There was 
{ a half-glass door leading into a little lobby near 
«t» {this sitting-room. Edward Arundel of ened' it 

'and went in, very quietly. He expected to find 
? his mother and his sister in the room with the 
CHAPTER XXXIII. bay-window. 

/ The door of this familiar apartment was ajar; 
the return of the wandeker.- i he pushed it open and went in. It wa^ a very 

i pretty room, and all the womanly litter'of open 
The March winds were Mowing among the {hooks and music, needle-work and drawing ma- 
oaks in Dangerfied Park, when Edward Arundel {terials, made it homelike. The fire-light Hick- 
went back, to the house which had never been {ered upon every thing — on the pictures and pic- 
his home since his boyhood. He went back be-{ ture-frames, the black oak paneling, the open 
cause he had grown weary of lonely wander- { piano, a cluster of snow-drops in a tall glass on 
ings in that strange Breton country. He had { the table, the scattered worsteds by the enrbroid- 
grown weary of himself, and of his own thoughts. { ery-frame, the sleepy dogs upon the hearth-rug. 
He was worn out by the .eager desire that de-{ A young lady-stood in the bay-w'indow with her 
vouredhim by day and by night— the passionate [back to the fire. Edward Arundel crept softly 
yearnjng to be far away beyond tnat low Eastern 5 up to her, and put his arm round her waist, 
horizon line; away amidst the carnage and riot { 'Letty.' 

of an Indian battle-field. { It was not Letitia, but a young lady with very 

So'he went back at last to his mother, who {blue eyes, who blushed scarlet, and turned upon 
had written to him again, and again, imptoring' the young man rather fiercely, and then recog- 
him to return to her, and to rest, and to be happy { nizing him, dropped into the nearest-chair, and 
in the familiar household where he was be- {began to tremble and grow pale, 
loved. He left his luggage at the little inn where { '1 am sorry I startled you, Miss Lawford,' 
the coach that had brought him from Exeter Edward said, gently; 'I really thought y6u were 


my sister. 1 did not even know that jdu were ', her waving bfown hair pushed off her forehead,, 
here. < an( j h er white eyelids hiding the tender blue eyes. 

'No, of course not. I— you did 'nt startle me ; She sat twisting the chain in her fingers, and 
much,, Mr. Arundel, only you were not expected ) dared not lift her eyes to Mr. Arundel's face; 
home. I thought you were far away in Brittany, j and if there had been a whole flock of geese in 
1 had-no # idea that there was any chance of your ; the room she could not have said 'Bo!' to one of 
returning. I thought you meant to be away all : them, 
the summer; Mrs. Arundel told me so.' '',• And yet she was not a stupid girl. Her father 

Belinda Lawford said all this in that fresh < could have indignantly refuted any such slander 
girlish voice which was familiar to Mr. Aruftdel; , as that against the azure-eyed Hebe who made 
but she was still very pale, arid she still trembled ; his home pieasant to him. # To the major's mind 
a little, and there was something almost apolo-j Belinda was all that man could desire in the wo- 
getic in the way in which she assured Edward ', man of his choice, whether as daughter or wife, 
that she had believed he would be abroad through-;! She was the bright genius of the old man's home, 
out the summer. It seemed almost as if she had ', and he loved her with that chivalrous devotion 
said: 'I did not come here because I thought I '', which is common to brave soldiers, who' are the 
should see you. I had no thought or hope of 'simplest and gentlest of men when you chain 
meeting ygu.' < them to their firesides, and keep them away from 

But Edward Arundel was not a coxcomb, and ''. the dm of the camp 'and the confusion of the 
he wa's very slow to understand any such signs \ transport-ship. 

as these. He saw that he had startled the young •'. Belinda Lawford was clever, but only just 
lady, and that she had turned pple and trembled 'clever enough to be charming. I don't think 
as she recognized him; and he looked at her with / she could have got through 'Paradise Lost,' or 
a half-wandering, half-pensive expression in his ^Gibbon's 'Decline and Fall,' or a volume by 
face. •' Adam, Smith or M'OuOoch, though you had 

She blushed- as he looked at her. She went to >, promised her a diamond necklace when she came 
the. table and began to ^ather together the silks '. conscientiously to 'Finis.' But she coiild read 
and worsteds, as if the arrangement of her work-- Shakspeare for the hour together, and did read 
basket were a matter of vital importance, to be ; him aloud to her father in a fresh, clear voice, 
achieved at any sacrifice of politeness. Then j that was like music on the water. And she read 
suddenly remembering that she ought to say •', Macaul ay's 'History of England,' with eyes that 
something to Mr. Arundel, she gave evidence of ^kindled 'when the historian's pages flarne4 out 
the originality of her intellect by the following / with burning words that were like the characters 
remark: > upon a blazing scroll. She could play Men- 

iHow surprised Mrs. Arundel and Letitia will' delssohn and Beethoven — plaintive sonatas, tender 
be to see youV / songs, that had no need of words to expound the 

Even as she said this her eyes were still bent j; mystic meaning of the music. She could >ing 
upon the skeins of worsted in her hand. . .; old ballads and Irish melodies, that thrilled the 

'Yes; I thinkrfhey will be surprised. I did not / souls of those who heard her, and made hard 
mean to come home until the autumn. But I got/ men pitiful to brazen Hibernian beggars in the 
so tired of wandering about a strange country / London streets for the memory of that pensive 
alone. Where are they — my mother and'Le-/ music. She could read the leaders in the Times, 
titia?' /with no false quantities in the Latin quotations, 

'They have gone down the village to the / and knew what she was reading about; and had 
school. .They will be back to tea. Your brother) her favorites at St. Stephen's and adored Lord 
is, away; and we dine at three o'clock, and drink/ Palmerston, and was Liberal to the core of her 
tea at eight. It is so much pleasanter than din-/ tender young heart. She was as brave as a true 
inglate.' '». /Englishwoman should be, and would have gone 

This was quite an effort of genius; and Miss ': to the wars with her old father, and served him 
Lawford went on sorting the skeins of worsted in / as his page; or wouH have followed him. into 
the fire-light. Edward Arundel had been stand- /captivity, and tended him in prison, if she had, 
ing all, this time with his hat in his hand,_ almost/ lived in the days when there was such work for ' 
as if he had been a visitor making a late morning / a high-spirited girl to do. 

call updn Belinda; but he put his hat down how,/ But she sat opposite Mr. Edward Arundel, and 
and seated himself near the table by which the /twisted her chain round her fingers, and listened 
young lady stood busy with the arrangement of/ for the footsteps of the returning mistress of the 
her work-basket. '< house. She was like a bashful school-girl who 

Her heart was beating very fast, and she was \ has danced with an officer at her first ball. And 
straining her arithmetical powers to the utter- j yet amidst her shy confusion, her fears that she 
most, in the endeavor to make a very abstruse \ should seem agitated and embarrassed, her strug- 
calculation as to the time in which Mrs. Arundel j gles to appear at her ease, there was a sort of 
and Letitia could walk to the village school-house j pleasure in being seated here by the low fire with 
and back to Dangerfield, and the delay that might i Edward Arundel opposite to her. There was a 
arise by reason of sundry interruptions from ob- i strange pleasure, and almost painful pleasure, 
sequious gaffers and respectful goodys, eager for] mingled with her feelings in those quiet moments, 
a wocd of friendly salutation from their patroness.] She was acutehj conscious of every sound that 

The arrangement of the work-basket could not broke the stillness — the sighing of the wind in 
last forever. It had bepome the most pitiful pre- the wide chimney; the falling of the cinders on 
tense by the time Miss Lawford shut down the > the hearth; the occasional snort of one of the 
wicker lid, and seated herself primly in a« low '{ sleeping dogs; and the beating of her' own rest- 
chair by the fire-place. She sat looking down i less heart. And though she dared not lift her 
at the fire, and twisting a slender gold chain in eyelids to the young soldier's face, that handsome , 
and out between her smooth white fingers. She earnest countenance, with the chestnut hair lit 
looked Tery pretty in that fitful fire-light, with ] up with gleams of gold, the firm lips shaded by a, 


brown mustache, the pensive smile, the broad ' come to*pass in half a century or sc — if he should 
white forehead, the dark-blue handkerchief tied ; choose her for his second wife, she knew that 
loosely under a white collar, the care"less gray ' she would be gladly and tenderly welcomed at 
traveling-dress, even the attitude of the hand '; Dangerfield. Mrs. Aiundel had hinted as much 
and arm, the bent head drooping a liitle over the ', as this. Belinda knew how anxiously that loving 
Are, were as present to her inner sight as if. her '; mother hoped that her son might, by-and»by, form 
eyes had kept watch all this time, and had never new ties, and cease to lead a purposeless life, 
wavered in their steady gaze. '. wasting his brjghtest years , in lamentations for 

There is a second sight that is not recognized I his jost bride She knew till ihis; and -sitting 
by grave professors of, magic; a second sight opposite to tie yourie man in the fire-light, there 
which common people call Love. was a dull pain at her htart lor there v. as some- 

But by-and-by Edward began to talk, and then ' thing in the soldier's sombre fare that to'ld her he 
Miss Lawford found courage, and took heart to ; had not yet ceased to lament that irrevocable 
question him. about his wanderings in Brittany. ; past. 
She (i ad only been a few weeks in Devonshire, 

she said. Her thoughts went back to the dreary But Mis. Arundel and Letitij came in presently, 
autumn in Lincolnshire as she spoke; and she and- gave utterance to loud rejoicings; and prc- 
remembered the dull October day upon which her ; prxraiions were made, for ihe plnsfrta! comfort 
father had come into the girls'" morning-room at ; f ihe wanderer— bells were rung", lighted wax- 
the Grange with Edward's farewell letter in his \, candles and a glittering tea-service were brought 
hand. She remembered this, and all the talk Jin, a cloth was laid, and cold meats and other 
that there had been about the horsewhipping of ;. comestibles spread forth, with that profusion that 
Mr. Paul Marchmont upon his own threshold. ; has made the west country as proverbial as the 
She remembered all the warm discussions, the ; north for its hospitality I think Miss Lawford 
speculations, the ignorant conjecture's, the prai.-e, ! would have sat opposite the travel, r for a week 
the blame; and how it had been her business to J without a-king an\ such commonplace quest). •• 
sit by, and listen, and hold her peace, except ; as to whether Mr Arundel required refreshment*. 
upon that one never-to-be-forgotten night at the ; She had read in her Hort's Pantheon that the gods 
rectory, when Paul Marchmont had hinted at. ; sometimes at- and drank like ordinary mortals; 
something whose perfect meaning she had never yet ithad neverentered into her mind thatEdwaid 
dared to imagine, but which had, somehow or; could be hungry. But she now had the satisfac- 
other, mingled vaguely with all her day-dreams ■ tion of seeimj Mr. Arundel eat a very good din- 
ever since. ( n er, while she herself poured out the tea to oblige 

Was there any truth in that which Paul March- ; Letitia, who was in ihe middle of the third volume 
mont had said to her? Was it true that Edward ! n f » new novel, and went on reading it as coolly 
Arundet had never really loved his young bride? ; as if there had bt en no such person as thathand- 

Letitia had said as much, not once, but twenty j SO me young soldier in the world. 
times, j 'The books must go.back to the club to-morrow 

'It's quite ridiculous to suppose that he could j morning, vou know, mamma de*ar, or I wouldn't 
have ever been in iove with the poor, dear, sickly : re3( j at tea-time',' the young lady remarked, apolo- 
thing,' Miss Arundel had exclaimed; 'it was only se tically. '■ 'I want to know whether he'll marry 
the absurd romance of the business that eaptiva- Theodora, or that nasty Miss St. Leger Linda 
ted him; for Ed ward is really ridiculously romantic; ; thinUs he'll marry Miss" St.- Leger, and be miser- 
and her father having been a supemumer— it's .' able, and Theodora will die. I believe Linda 
no use; I don't think any body ever did know ; likes love-stories to end unhappily". !• don't. 1 
how many syllables there are in that word— and- : hope if he ,lrt* marrv Miss St. Leger— and be* I! 
having lived in Oakley Street, and having written ! be a wicked vvretch if he d-es, after ihe things 
a pitiful letter to Edward aboutr this motherless > he has said To Theodora— I hope, if he does, 
daughter, and all that sort of thing; just like one j she'll die— catch cold at a dtfvner at Twicken- 
of those tiresdme old novels with a baby left at a j ham, or something of that kind, vou know: and 
cottage-door, and all the s's looking like f's, and < then he'll marry Theodora afterward, and all 
the last word of the page repeated at the lop of ; w ii] en d happily. Do vou know, Linda, I always 
the next page, you know Jhat was why my ; fancy that you're like' Theodora, and that Ed- 
brother married Miss Marchmont, you may d*-- ■; wan ]'s like 'him .' 

pend upon it, Linda; and all I hope is, that he'll , After which speech Miss Arundel went back 
be sensible enough to marry again soon, and to [ to her book, and Edward helped himself to a 
have a Christian-like wedding, with carriages, < s |j ce f tongue rather awkwardly; and Belinda 
and a breakfast, and two clergymen: and /should j. Lawford, who had her hand upon the urn, stif- 
wear white glace silk, with tulle puffings, and a ] f er ed the tea-pot to overflow among the cups and 
tulle bonnet (I suppose I must wear a bonnet, be- ; saucers, 
ing only a bride-maid?), all showered over with \ 
clematis, as if I'd stood under a clematis-bush \ 
when the wind was blowing, you know, Linda.' \ *•■* 

With such discourse as this Miss Arundel had J 
frequently entertained her friend; and she hadi , CHAPTER XXXIV. 

indulged in numerous innuendoes of an embar- * * , » 

rassing nature as to the propriety of old friends j a widowers proposal. 

and school-fellows being united by the endearing For some time after his return Edward Arun- 
tie of sister-in-law-hood, and other observations .' del was very restless and gloomy, roaming about 
to the like effect. , J the'eountry by himself, under the influence of a 

Belinda knew that if Edward ever came to < pretended passion for pedestrianism, reading hard 
lore her — whenever she did venture to speculate f for the first 'time in his Jifo, shutting himself in 
upon such a chance, she never dared to come at j his dead father's library, and sitting hour after 
all n»ar it, but thought of it as a thing that might i hour in a great easy-chair, reading the histories 


'of all the wars that have ever ravaged this eai'lh, my brighter and happier self to you, Belinda; 1 
from the days in which the elephants of a Cartha- consecrate my sorrow and my tears to her. I 
ginian ruler trampled upon the soldiery of Rojne, love you with all n»y heart, Belinda, but even 
to the era of that Corsican barrister's wonderful for the sake of your love 1 will not pretend that 
son, who came out of his simple island home to I can forget her. If John Marchmont's daugh- 
cdnquer the civilized half of the world. ter had died with her head npoti my biea«t and a 

Edward Arundel showed himself a verv indif- prayer on her lips, I might have regretted her as 
ferentbrother; for. do what she could, Letitia ■' other men regret their wives, and 1 might ha*e 
could not induce him to join in any of her pur- learned by-and-hy to look back upon my grief 
suit*. She caused a butt to be set. up upon the with only a tender and natural regret, that would 
lawn; but all she could say about Belinda's bi'st < have left, my future life unclouded. But it can 
gold could not bring the young man out upon the- never he so. The poison of remorse is blended 
grass to watch this two girls shooting-. He looked • wittj that sorrowful memory. ]f I had done 
at them by stealth sometimes through the window' oil erwi-t — if I had been wiser and more though't- 
of the library, and sighed as h6 thought of the ful — mv darling need never have suffered; my dar- 
hlight upon his manhood, and of all the thingsthat. lin^ need never have sinned. .It is the thought 
might have been. that her death may have been a sinful one that is 

Might not thi »e things even yet cometc pa'5? most cruel to me, Belinda. 1 have seen her pray, 
Had he not done hi< duty to the dead; and was with her pale, earnest far e uplifted, arid the light 
h* not free now to begin afresh life.- His mo- of faith shining in her gentle eyes; I have seen 
ther was perpetually hinting at some bright pros- the inspiration of God upon her face;and I can 
pect That lay smiling befoie him, if he chose to not hear to think that, in the darkness that came 
tike the blossom-bestrewn path that hd to that; down upon her young life, that holy Hght was 
fair country. His sister told him st.ill more ; quenched; I cannot bear to think that Heaven 
plainly of a prize that was within his reach, if was ever deaf to the pitiful cry of my innocent 
tie were but. brave enough to stn-tcb out' his hand lamb:' . 

and claim the precious trea-ure foijjhis own. But And here Mr. Arundel paused, and sat si- 
wheji he thought of a!! this— when he pondered lentlv Ionising out at the long shadows pf the 
whether it would not be wise to drop the dense trees upon the darkening lawn; and I fear that, 
curtain of forgetfulne's over that sad picture of for the lime being, he forgot that he had just 
the past — whether >t would not be well to le't the; made Miss Lawford an offer of his hand and so 
dead bury their dead, and to accept that other much of his heart as a"widower may be jsupposed 
blessing which the same Providence that had; to have at his disposal. 

blighted his first hope seemed to offer tq him now; Ah me! we can only live and die one. Theifc 
— the shadowy phantom o.f John Marchnioni • are some things, and those, the most beautiful of 
arose out of the mystic realms of the dead, and a J all things, that can never be renewed : the bloom 
ghostly voice cried to him : * on a butterfly's wing; the morning dew upon u 

'I charged you with my daughter's safe-keep- '-•new 1 y-nlown rose; our first view of the ocean; 
ing; 1 tru-ted you with her innocent love; Pgave'; our first pantomime, when all the fairies were 
you the custody of herhelpiessness. What have fairies forever, *and when' the imprudent con- 
you done to show yourself worthy of toy faith in; sumption of the contents .of a pewter quart- 
you ':' • measure in s-ight of the stage-box could not dis- 

Thes#ihout;rits tormented the young widower . enchant us with that elfin creature Harlequin, 
perpetually, and deprived him of all p!ea«ure'in the graceful, faithful betrolhed of Columbine the 
the congenial society of his sister and Belinda fair. The firstlings of life are most precious. 
Lawford; or infused so sharp a flavor of remorse When the black wine of the angel of death swept 
into his cup of enjoyment that pleasure u»i^ akin over aconized Egypt, and the children weresmit- 
to pain. . ten, offended Heaven, erfger for a sacrifice, took 

So 1 don't know how it waS that, in the -dusky the first-born. The young mothers would hare 

twilight of a bright day in early- May, neariy other children, perhaps; but between those others 

,two months after his return to Dangerfield, F.d- and the mother's love there would be the pale 

ward Arundel, coming by chance upon Miss shadow of that lost darling whose tiny hands^i?-*/ 

Lawford as she sal alone in the deep bay-window ; drew undreamed-of melodies Irom the sleeping 

where he had found her on his first coming, con- ; chords, f.rst . evoked the slumbering spirit of mav 

fessed to her the terrible struggle of feeling that ' Jernal love. Among the latter lines — the most 

made the great trouble of his life, and asked her' passionate, the most soriowful — that George 

if she was willing to accept a love which, in its : Gordon Noel Byron wrote, are some brief verses 

warmest fervor, was not quite unclouded by the 'that breathed a lament for the lost freshness, the 

shadows of the sorrowful past. ; never-to-be-recovered youth : 

'I love you dearly, Linda,' he said! 'I love, 1 • ., , . T , ,,„ TV , , ,. . , . r , 
. t j • j i i .u » •* • • ' Oh, could I feel as I have felt; or be what I have been: 

esteem, I admire, you; and 1 know that it is in; r weep as I oould once have wept !' 

your power to give me the happiest future that, 

ever a man imagined in his youngest, brightest cried the poet when he complained of that 'mor- 
dreams. But if you do accept my love, dear,; tal coldness.of the soul,' which is 'like death 
you must take my memory with it. lean not; itself. ' 

forget, Linda I have tried to forget. 1 have; Edward Arundel had grown to love Belinda 
prayed that God, in His mercy, might give me; Lawford unconsciously, and in spite of himself; 
forgetfulness of that irrevocable past. But the; but the first love of his heart, the first fruit of 
prayer has never been granted; the boon has! his youth, had perished. He could not feel quite 
never been bestowed. I think that love for the? the same devotion, the same boyish chivalry, that 
living and remorse for the dead must forever / he had felt for the innocent bride who had wan- 
reign side by side in my heart. It is no falsehood ; dered beside him in the sheltered meadows near 
to youthat makes me remember her; it is no for-i Winchester. He might begin a new life, but he 
getfulness of her that makes me love you. I offer \ could not live the old life over again. He must 


wear his rue with a difference this time. But he ! change his mind if matters were not brought 
loved Belinda very dearly, nevertheless; and he swiftly to a climax, and that she hurried on the" 
told her so, and by-and-by won from her a tear- \ irrevocable day in order that he might have no 
l'ul avowal of affection. breathing-tune until the vows had been spoken 

Alas! she had no power to question the man- and Belinda Law ford was his wedded wile. It 
ner of his wooing. He loved her— he had said as < had been arranged that Edward should escort Be- 
much-, and all the good she had desired in this ' linda back to Lincolnshire, and that his mother 
universe became hers from the moment of Ed- and Letitia, who was to be chief bridemaid, 
wa'rd Arundel's utterance of those words. He ; should go with them. The marriage was to be. 
loved her; that was enough. That he should j solemnized at Hillingsworth Church, which was 
cherish a remorseful sorrow for that lost wife within a mile and a half of the Grange. 
made him only the truer, nobler, and dearer in > The first of July was the day appointed by 
Belinda's sight. She was not vain, or exactit^, j agreement between Major and Mrs. Lawford and 
or selfish. It was not in her nature to begrTidge | Mrs. Arundel-, and on the 18th of June Edward 
poor dead Mary the tender thoughts of her hus- \ was to accompany his mother, Letitia, and Be- 
band. She was generous, impulsive, believing; ! linda to Lincolnshire. They were to break the 
and she had no' more inclination to doubt Ed- j journey by stopping in town for a few days, in 

ward's love for her, after he had once avowed j order to make a great many purchases necessary 
such a sentiment, than to disbelieve in the light 'for Miss Lawford's wedding paraphernalia, for 

of heaven when she saw the sun shining. Lfn- which the Major had sent a bouncing check jto 
questioning, and unutterably happy, she received his favorite daughter. 

her lover's betrothal kiss, and went with him to And all this time the only person at allftnset- 
his mother, 'blushing and trembling, to receive tied, the only person whose mind was ill at ease, 
that lady's blessing. was Edward Arundel; the young widower who 

'Ah, if you knew how I have prayed for this, 'was about to take lo himself a second wife. His 
Linda!' Mrs. Arundel exclaimed, as she folded 'mother, who watched him with a maternal com- 
the girl's slight figure in her arms. * prehension of every .change in his face, saw this, 

'And I shall wear white glacu with pinked ; and tremble* for her son's happiness, 
flounces, instead of tulle puffings, you sly Linda,' 'And yet he cannot be otherwise than happy 
cried Letitia. with Belinda Lawford,' Mrs. Arundel thought to 

'And I'll give Ted the home farm, and the herself. 
white house to live in, if«he likes to try his hand But upon the eve of that journey to London 
at the new system of farming,' said Reginald Edward sat alone with his mother in the drawing- 
^rundel, who had come home from the Conti- ; room at Dangerfield, after the two younger ladies 
nent, and had amused himself for the last week : had retired for the night, They slept in adjoin- 
by strolling about his" estate, and staring at his < ing apartments, these two young ladies; and 1 re- 
ttmber, and almost wishing that there was a ne- gret te say that a great deal of their conversation 
cessity for cutting down all the oaks in the ave- 

nue, so that he might have something to occupy 
him until tHe 12th of August. 

was about Valenciennes lace, and flounces cut 
upon the cross, moire antique, mull muslin, glace 
silk, and the last 'sweat thing' in bonrfcts. It was 

Never was promised bride more welcome to a only when loquacious Letitia was shut out that 
household, than bright Belinda Lawford; and as Miss Lawford knelt alone in the still moonlight, 
•for the young lady herself,'! must confess that and prayed that she might be a good wife to the 
she was almost childishly happy, and that it was man who had chosen her. I don t think she ever 
all that she cduld do to prevent her light step prayed that she might be faithful, and true, and 
from falling into a dance as she floated hither and pure; for it never entered into her mind that any 
thither through the house at Dangerfield — afresh ■ creature bearing the sacred name of wife could 
young Hebe in crisp muslin robes; a gentle god- be otherwise. She only prayed for the mysterious 
dess, with smiles upon her face and happiness in power to preserve her husband's affection, and 
her.heart. make his life happyi 

'I loved you from tbe first, Edward,' she whis- Mrs. Arundel, setting tete-a-tete with her 

pered one day to her lover. 'I knew that you younger son in the lamp-lit drawing-room, was 

were good, and brave, and noble; and 1 loved startled by hearing the young man breathe a 

,you because of that.' deep sigh. She looked up from her work to see 

And a little for the golden glimmer in his clus- a sadder expression in his face than perhaps ever 
tering auburn curls; and a little for his handsome* clouded the countenance of an expectant bride- 
profile, his dalrk-blue eyes, and that distinguished l groom, 
air peculiar to the defenders of their country, more , 'Edward!' she exclaimed, 
especially peculiar, perhaps, to those who ride on 'What, mother ?! 
horseback when they sally forth to defend her. , 'How heavily you sighed just now!' 
Once a soldier forever a soldier, I think. You! 'Did I ?' said Mr. Arundel, abstractedly. Then, 
may rob the noble warrior of his uniform, if you after a brief pause, he said, in a different tone, 
will; but the je ne sais quoi, the nameless air of; 'It is no use trying to hide these things from you, 
the 'long-sword, saddle, bridle,' will hang round ; mother. The truth is, I am not happy.' 
him still. ] 'Not happy, Edward!' cried Mrs. Arundel; 

Mrs. Arundel and Letitia took matters quite ■ 'but surely you — ' 
out of the hands of the two lovers. The elder ! 'I know what you are going to say, mother, 
lady fixed the wedding-day, by agreement with j Yes, mother; I love this dear girl, Linda, with 
Major Lawford, and sketched out the route for 'all my heart; I love her most sincerely; and I 
the wedding-tour. The younger lady chose the > could look forward to a life of unalloyed happi- 
fabrics for the dresses of the bride and her at- i ness with ber, if — if there was not some inexpli- 
tendants; and all was done before Edward and ;: cable dread, some vague and most miserable 
Belinda well knew what their friends were about. ! feeling always coming between me and my iopes. 
1 think that Mrs. Arundel feared her son might] 1 have tried to look forward to the future, mo- 



then I have tried to think of what my life may ] a cheerful visage. Ah, what a pleasant jour- 
be with Belinda; but I can not, I can not. I can j ney it was to Belinda, that progress through 
not look forward; all is dark to me. I try to build 1 London on the way to Lincolnshire. It was 
up a bright palace, and an unknown hand shatters like that triumphant journey of last March, when 
it. I try to turn away from the memory of my 1 the royal bridegroom led his Northern bride 
old sorrows; but the same hand plucks me back, ) through a surging sea'of eager, smiling faces, to 
aDd chains me to the past. If I could retract ) the musical jangling of a thousand bells. If 
what I have done; if I could, with an) show of i there were neither populace nor joy-bells on 

honor, draw back, even now, and not go upon 
this journey to Lincolnshire; if I could break my 
faith to this poor girl who loves me, and whom I 
love, as God knows, with all truth and earnest- 
ness — I would do so; 1 would do so ' 


'Yes, mother; I would do it. It is not in me to 
forget. My dead wife haunts me by night and 
day. I hear her voiae crying to me, "False, 
false, false; cruel and false; heartless and forget- 
ful!" There is never a night that I do not dream 
of that dark sluggish river down in Lincolnshire. 
There is never a dream that ] have, however ri- 
dicu^us, however inconsistent in all its other de- 
tails, in which I do not see her dead face looking 
up at me through the murky waters. Even when 
I am talking to Linda, when words of love for 
her are on-my lips, my mind wanders away back 
—always back— to the sun-set by the boat-house, 
when my little wife gave me her hand, to .'ie 
trout-stream in the meadow, where we sat side ' 
by side and talked about the future.' 

For a few minutes Mrs. Arundel was quite si- ! 
lent. She abandoned herself for that brief inter- 
val to complete despair. It was all over. The 
bridegroom would cry off; insulted Major Law- 
ford would come post-haste to Dangerfield, to an- 
nihilate this dismal widower, who did not know 
his own mind. All the shimmering fabrics — the 
gauzes, and laces, and silks, and velvets — that 
were in course of preparation in the upper cham- 
b||s, would become so much useless finery, to be 
hidden in out-of-the-way cupboards, and de- 
voured by misanthropical moths — insect icono- 
clasts, wh»take a delight in destroying the deco- 
rations of the human temple. 
* Poor Mrs. Arundel took a mental photograph 
of all the complicated horrors of the situation. 
An offended father; a gentle, loving girl, crushed 
like some broken- lily; gossip, slander, misery of 
all kinds. And then the lady plucked up cour- 
age, and gave her recreant son a sound lecture, 
to the effect that Jiis conduct was atrociously 
wicked; and that if this trusting young bride, this 
fair young second wife, "were to be taken away 
from him as the first had been, such a calamity 
would only be a fitting judgment upon him for his 

But Edward told his mother very quietly that 
he had no intention of being false to his newly- 
plighted troth. 

'1 love Belinda,' he said; 'and I will be true to 
her, mother. But I cannot forget the past, 
hangs about me like a bad dream.' 

this occasion, I scarcely think Miss Lawford 
knew that those elements of a triumphal progress 
were missing. To her ears all the universe was 
| musical with the sounds of mystic joy-bells; all 
} the earth was glad with the brightness of happy 
faces. The railway-carriage, the commonplace 
1 vehicle, frouzy with the odor of woof and mo- 
j rocco,, was a fairy chariot, more Wonderful than 
Queen Mab's; the white chalk-cutting in- the 
j hill was a shining cleft in a mountain of silver; 
the wandering streams were melted diamonds; 
the stations were encharited castles. The pale 
sherry, carried in a pocket flask, and sipped out 
of a little silver tumbler — there is'apt to be a 
w # arm flatness about sherry- taken out of pocket- 
flasks that is scarcely agreeable to the connois- 
seur — was like nectar newly brewed for the g*df; 
even the anchovies in the sandwiches were like 
the enchanted fish in the Arabian , story. A 
magical philter bad been infused into the atmos- 
phere; the flavor of first love was in every sight 
and sound. 

• Was ever bridegroom more indulgent, more 
devoted, than Edward Arundel? He sat at the 
counters of silk-mercers for the hour together, 
while Mrs. Arundel and the two girls deliberated 
over crisp fabrics unfolded for their inspection. 
He was always ready to be consulted, and gave 
his opinion upon the conflicting merits of peach 
color and 'pink, apple-green and maize, with un- 
wearying attention. But sometimes, even ■while 
Belinda was smiling at him, with the rippling 
.silken stuff held up in her white hands, ani 
making a lustrous cascade upon the counter, the 
mystic hand* plucked him back, and his mind 
wandered away to that childish bride who had 
chosen no, splendid garments for her wedding, 
but had gone with him to the altar as trustfully 
as a b#by goes in its mother's arms to the cradle. 
If he had been left alone with Belinda, with ten- 
der, sympathetic Belinda' — who loved him well 
enough to understand him, and was always ready 
to take her cue from his face, and to be joyous or 
thoughtful according to his mood — it might have 
been better for him. But Ms mother and Letitia 
reigned paramount during this ante-nuptial week, 
and Mr. Arundel was scarcely suffered to take 
breath. He was hustled hither and thither in 
the hot summer noontide. He was taken to 
Howell and James's to choose a dressing-case for 
his bride; and he was made to look at glittering 
objects until his eyes ached, and he could see 
It | nothing but a bewildering dazzle of ormolu and 
■ silver-gilt. He was taken te a great emporium 
in Bond Street to select perfumery, and made to 
sniff at divers essences until his nostrils were un- 
naturally distended, and his olfactory nerves af- 
flicted with temporary paralysis. There was 
jewelry of his mother's and of Belinda's mo- 
ther's- to be re-set; and the hymeneal victim was 
I compelled to sit for an hour or so, blinking at 
in Lincoln- i fiery -crested serpents that were destined to coij 
j up his wife's arms, and emerald padlocks that 
., • , , , J were to lie upon her breast. And then, when his 

The young widower made no further lamenta- \ soul was weary of glairing splendors and glitter- 
tion, but did his duiy to bis betrothed bride with j ing confusions, t&ey took him round the l^rk, in 





a whirlpool of diaphanous 1 onnets, and smiling' 
laces, and brazen harness, and emblazoned ham- 
•mer-cloths, on Ihe margin of a river whose wa- 
ters were like molten gold under the blazing sun. 
And then they gave him a stat in an uj era-box. 
and the crash of a monsfer orchestra, blended 
with the hum of a thousand voices, to soothe his 
nerves withal. 

But the more wearied this young man became 
with glitter, and dazzle,- and sunshine, and silk- 
mercer's ware, the more surely his mind wan- 
dered back to, the still meadows, and the limpid ' 
trout-stream, the sheltering hills, the solemn 
shadows ( of the cathedral, the distant voices of 
the rooks high up in the waving elms. 

The bustle "of preparation was over at last, and 
the bridal party went down to Lincolnshire. 
Pleasant chambers had been prepared at tlie 
Grange for Mr. Arundel and his mother and sis- 
ter; and the bridegroom was received with en- 
thusiasm by Belinda's blue-eyed younger sisters, 
who were enchanted to find that there was going 
to be a wedding, and that they were to have, new 

So Edward would have been a churl indeed 
had he .seemed otherwise than happyj had he 
been any thing but devoted to the bright girl who 
loved bun. 

Tidings of the corning wedding flew like wild- 
fire through Lincolnshire, Edward Arundei's 
romantic story had elevated him into a hero; t>li 
manner of reports had been circulated about his 
devotion to his lost young wife. He had sworn 
never to mingle in society again, people j-mk!. 
He had sworn never to have a new suit of 
clothes, or to have his hair cut, or to s-have, or to 
eat a hot dinner. And Lincolnshire by no means 
approved of the defection, implied by his ap- 
proaching union with Belinda. He was only a 
commonplace widower after all, it seemed; ready- 
to be consoled as soon as the ceremonious inter- 
val of decent grief was over. People had ex- 
pected something better of him. They half ex- 
pected to see him in a year or two with long gray 
hair, shabby clothes, and his beard upon his 
breast, prowling about the village of Keinber- 
ling, baited by little children. Lincolnshire was 
veiy much disappointed by the turn that affairs 
had taken. Shakspeariau aphorisms u-ere cur- 
rent among the gossips at comfortable tea tables; 
and people talked about funeral baked meats, and 
the propriety of building churches if you have, 
any ambitious 'desire that your memoiy should 
outlast your life, and other bitter observations, 
familiar to all admirers of the great dramatist. 

But there were some people in Liticolnshiie to 
whom the news of Edward Arundel's intended 
marriage was more welcome than the early 1Via\- 
llpwers to rustic children eager for a festival. 
Paul Marchmont heard the report, and rubbed 
his hands stealthily, and smiled to himself as he 
sat reading in the sunny western drawing-room. 
The good seed that he had sown that night at 
the Rectory had_ borne this welcome Iruit. Ed- 
ward Arundel with a young wife would be very- 
much less formidable than Edward Arundel single 
and discontented, prowling about the neighbor- 
hood of Marchmont Towers, and perpetually 
threatening vengeance upon Mary's cousin. 

It was busy littje Lavinia Weston who fit st 
brought her brother the tidings. He took both her 
hands in his, and kissed them in his enthusiasm* 

'My best of sisters,' he said, 'you shall have a 
pair of diamond ear-rings for this.' 

'For only bringing you the news, Paul }' 
. 'For only bringing me the news. Whenames- 
senger carries the tidings of a great victory to his- 
king, the king makes him a knight upon the spot. 
This marriage is a victory to me, Lav-ina. From 
to-day 1 shall breathe freely.' , , . 

'But they are not married yet. Something 
may happen, perhaps, to prevent — ' 

'What should happen?' asked Paul, rather 
sharply. 'By-the-by,' it wi 1 be as weM to keep 
this from Mrs. John,' he added, thoughtfully; 
though really now 1 fancy it mutters little what 
she hears.' 

•He tapped his forehead lightly with his two 
slim fingers, and theiewas a horrible significance 
in the action. 

'She is not likely to ^iear ahy thing,' Mrs'. 
Weston said; 'she sees no one but Barbara Sim- 

'Then 1 should be glad if you would give Sim- 
mons a hint to hold her tongue. This news about 
the wedding would disturb her mistress.' - 

'Yes, 1'il tell her so. Barbara is a very ex- 
cellent person. 1 can always manage Barbara. 
But, oh, Paul, I don't know what I'm to do with 
that poor weak-witted husband of mirre.' 

' How do yoli mean ?' 

•Oh, Paul, J have had such a scene with him 
to day. Such a scene I You remember the way 
he went on that day down in the boat-house when 
Edward Arundel came in upon us unexpectedly ': 
Well, he's been going on as badly as that to-day, 
Paul — -or worse, J. really think. 1 ' 

Mr. Marchmont. frowned, and flung aside his 
newspaper, with a geslur.e expressive .of consid- 
erable vexation. 

'?v T ow, really, Lavinia, this is too bad,' he 
said; 'if your husband is a fool, I am not going 
to be bored about his folly. You have managed 
him for fifteen years; surely y on can go on npn- 
aging him now without annoying me about him ? 
If Mr. George Weston doesn't know when he's 
well off, he's an ungrateful cur, and you may 
tell him so, with my compliments.' ' 

He picked up his newspaper again,, and begsfl 

read. But Lavinia Weston, looking anxious!} 



at her brother's face, saw that his pale auburn 
brows were contracted in a thoughtful frown, 
and that, if he read at all, tlie words upon which 
his eyes rested could convey very little meaning 
to his brain. • 

She was right, for presently he spoke to her, 
still looking at .the page befoie him, and with an 
attempt at carelessness. 

'Do you think thatfellow would go to Aus- 
tralia, Lavinia r' , 
'. •AJfwe?' asked his sisler. i 

'Yes, alolie, of course,' said Mr. Marchmont, 

putting down his paper, and looking at Mrs. 

Weston rather dubiously; 'I don't want you to 

go to the antipodes; but if— if the fellow refused 

, to go without you. I'd make, it well worth your 

while to go out, there,_ Lavinia. You shouldn't 

: have any reason to regret obhging»me, my dear 

; jjrl.' 

The dear girl looked rather sharply at her'af- 
fectionate brother. 

'It's like a our selfishness, Paul, to propose 
such a thing,' she said, 'after all 1 've done— ' 

'I have not been illiberal to you. Lavinia.' 

'ifo, you have been generous enough to me, f 
know, in the matter of gifts; out \ou re rich, 
Paul, and you can afford to yive. 1 don't like 
the idea that you are so willing to pack me out 


of the way now that I can be no longer useful to > study looking out into the quadrangle. She sat 
y ou> /alone in that. dismal chamber, dimly lighted by a 

Mr. Marchmont shrug ;od lm shoulders. /pair of wax-candles, in tall, tarnished, silver 

'For Heaven's sake, Lavinia, don't be senti- / candlesticks. There could be no greater con- 
mental. If there's one thing I despise more ■; trast than that between this desolate woman and 
than another, it is this kind of mawkish senti- > the master of the house. All about him' was 
mentality. You've been a very good sister to /bright, and fresh, and glittering, and splendid; 
me, and I've been a very decent" brother to you. '( around her there was only ruin and decay, thick- 
If you have served me, I have made it answer/ ening dust, and gathering cobwebs — outward evi- 
'your purpose to do so. I don't want you togo/dences of an inner wreck. John Marchmont's 
away. You may bring all your goods and chat-' widow was of no importance in that household, 
tels to this house to-morrow, if you like, and live/ The servants did not care to trouble themselves 
at free quarters here for the rest of your exist-/ about her whims or wishes, nor to put her rooms 
ence. But if George Weston is a pig-headed / in order. They no longer courtesied to her when 
brute, who can't understand upon which side his £ they met her, wandering — with . a purposeless 
bread is buttered, he must be got out of the way < step and listless' feet that dragged along the 
somehow. I don't care what it costs me; "but he I ground — up and down the corridor, or out in the 
must be got out of the way. I'm not going to \ dreary quadrangles. They knew that she was mad. 
live the life of a modern Damocles, with a blun-£ What was to be gained by any show of respect 
dering sword always dangling over my head, in < to her, whose brain was too weak to hold the 
the person of Mr. George Weston. And if the / memory of their conduct for five minutes to- 
man objects to leave the country without you,- gether? Of all the -cruel calamities that cap be- 
why, I think your going with 'him would be only '< fall humanity, surely this living death called 
a sisterly act toward me. I hate selfishness, < madness is the worst. 

Lavinia, almost as much as I detest^ sentimen- < Barbara Simmons only was faithful to her mis- 
tality.' / tress with an unvarying fidelity. She made no 

Mrs. Weston was silent for some minutes, ab-/ boast of her devotion; she expected neither fee 
sorbed in reflection. Paul got up, kicked aside a \ nor reward for her self-ahnegation. That rigid 
foot-stool, and walked up and down the room ' religion of discipline which had not been strong 
with his hands in his pockets. / enough to preserve Olivia's stormy soul from 

'Perhaps I might get George to leave England, ( danger and' ruin was at least all-sufficient for this 
if I promised to join him as soon as he was com- J lower type of woman. Barbara Simmons had 
fortably settled in the colonies,' Mrs. Weston \ been taught to do her duty, and she did it with- 
said, at last. j.out question or complaint. As she went through 

'Yes,' cried Paul; 'nothing could be more easy. '. rain, snow, hail or sunshine twice every Sunday 
I'll act very liberally toward him, Lavinia; I'll J to Kemberling Church — as she sat upon a hard 
treat him well; but he shall not stay in England, i seat in an uncomfortable angle of the servants' 
No, Lavinia; after what you have told me to-day,! pew, with the sharp edges of the wood-work cut- 
I feel that he must be got out of the country.' \ ting her thin shoulders, to listen patiently to dull 

Mr. Marchmont went to the door and looked rambling sermons upon the hardest texts of St. 
out, to see if by chance any one had been listen- Paul — so she attended upon her mistress, submit- 
ing to him. The coast was quite clear. The ting to every caprice, putting' up with every hard- 
stone-paved hall looked as desolate as some un-j ship; because it was her duty so to do. The only 
discovered chamber in an Egyptian temple. The;; relief she allowed herself was an hour's gossip 
artist went back to Lavinia, and seated himself \ now and then in the housekeeper's room; but 
by her side. For some time the brother and/ she never alluded to her mistresses infirmities, 
sister talked together earnestly. 'nor would it have been safe for any other ser- 

They settled every thing for poor hen-pecked / vant to have spoken lightly of Mrs. John March- 
George Weston. He was to sail for Sydney im-/ mont in stern Barbara's presence, 
mediately. Nothing could be more easy than for /' Upon this summer evening, when happy people 
Lavinia to declare that her brother had acci- / were still lingering among the wild flowers in 
dentally heard of some grand opening for a medi-J shady lanes, or in the dusky pathways by the 
cal practitioner in the metropolis of the anti/ quiet river, Olivia sat alone, staging at the 
podes. The surgeon was to have a very hand- 'candles. # 

some sum given him, and Lavinia would, of course, > Was there any thing in her mind, or was she 
join him as soon as he was settled. Paul March-; only a human automaton slowly decaying into 
mont even looked through the Shipping Gazette in /dust? There was no speculation in those large 
search of an Australian vessel which should '< lustreless eyes fixed upon the dim light of the 
speedily convey his brother-in-law to a distant ? candles. But for all that the mind was not a 
shore. blank. The pictures of the past, forever chang- 

Lavinia Weston went home armed with all in g> like the scenes in some magic panorama, 
necessary credentials. She was to promise al- ; revolved before her. She had no memory of 

most any thing to her husband, provided that he 
gave his consent to an early departure. 

that which had happened a quarter of an hour 

ago; but she could remember every word that 

Edward Arundel had said to her in the Rectory 

garden at Swampington — every intonation of the 

voice in which tholjL words were spoken. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. There was a te^pvice on the table: an at- 

mr. weston refuses to be poT uroN J tenuated little silver tea-pot; a lopsided c'ream- 

TT _, . T * ; jug, with thin worn edges and" one dumpy little 

Upon the dlst ot June, the eve of Edward ifoot missing; and an antique dragon china cup 

Arundel s wedding-day, Olivia Marchmont sat>and saucer with tht gilding washed off. That 

in her own room-the room that she had chiefly ; meal, which is generally called social, has but a 

occupied .ever since her^husband's death-the; dismal aspect when it is only prepared for one, 




The solitary tea-cup, half filled with cold, stag- ; 
nant tea, with a leaf or two floating upon the ; 
top, like weeds on the surface of a tideiess pond; < 
the tea-spoon thrown askew across a little pool I 
of spilled milk in the tea-tray — looked as dreary \ 
as the ruins of a deserted city. ' i 

In the western drawing-room Paul was stroll- ; 
ing backward and forward, talking to his mother ! 
and sisters, and admiring his pictures. He had > 
spent a great deal of money upon art since taking j 
possession of.the Towers, and the western draw- < 
ing-room was quite a different place to what it ] 
had been in John Marchmont's lifetime. I 

Etty's divinites smiled through hazy draperies, ; 
more transparent than the summer vapors that j 
float before the moon. Pearly-complexioned ; 
nymphs, with faces archly peeping round the ' 
corner of soft resy shoulders, frolicked amidsi 
the silver spray of classic fountains. Turner's 
Grecian temples glimmered through sultry sum- 
mer mists; while glimpses of ocean sparkler 
here and there, and were ^is beautiful as if th< 
artist's brush had been dipped in melted opals 
Stanfield's breezy beaches made cool spots o1 
freshness on the wall. Panting deer upon dizz\ 
crags, amidst the misty Highlands, testified tc 
the hand of Landseer. Low down, in the corners 
of the room, there lurked quaint cottage-scenes 
by Faed. Ward's patched and powdered beaux 
and beauties — a Rochester, in a light periwig; a 
Nell Gwynne, showing her white teeth across a 
basket of oranges — made a blaze of color upon 
the walls; and among all these glories of to-da\ 
there were prim Madonnas and stiff-necked angels 
by Raphael and Tintoretto; a brown-faced grin- 
ning boy by Murillo (no collection ever was com- 
plete without that inevitable brown-faced boy); 
an obese Venus, by the great Peter Paul; and ; 
pale Charles the First, with martyrdom fore- 
shadowed in his pensive face, by Vandyke. ' 

Paul Marehmont contemplated his treasure? 
complacently as he strolled about the room, with 
his coffee-cup in his hand; while his mothei 
watched him admiringly from her comfortabU 
cushioned nest at one end of a luxurious sofa. 

'Well, mother,' Mr. Marehmont said, presently. 
'let people say what they may of me, they can 
never say that I have used my money badly 
When I am dead and gone these pictures will 
remain to speak for me; posterity will say, 'A1 
any rate, the fellow was a man of taste.' Now 
what, in Heaven's name, could that miserable 
little Mary have done with eleven thousand a 
y«ir, if — if she had lived to. enjoy it?' 

The minute-hand of the little clock in Mrs. 
John Marchmont's study was creeping slowly 
toward the quarter before eleven, when Olivia 
was aroused suddenly from that long reverie, in 
which the images of the past had shone upon her 
across the dull stagnation of the present, like the 
domes and minarets in a Phantasm City gleaming 
athwart the barren desert sands. 

She was aroused by a cautious tap upon the 
outside of her window. She got up, opened the 
window, and Jooked out. The night was dark 
and starless, and there was a faint whisper oi 
wind among the trees, that sounded like the pre- 
sage of a storm. 

'Don't be frightened,' whispered a timid voice-, 
'it's only me, George Weston. I want to talk to 
you, Mrs. John. I've got something particular 
to tell you — awful particular; but they mustn't 
hear it; (hey mustn't know I'm here I came 

round this way on purpose. You can let me in 
at the little door in the lobby, can't you, Mrs. 
John? I tell you I must tell you what I've got to 
tell y§u,' cried Mr. Weston, indifferent to tau- 
tology in his excitement. 'Do let me in, there's 
a dear good soul. The little door in the lobby, 
you know; it's locked, you know, but the key 
ain't taken away, 1 dessay. ' 

'The door in the lobby?' repeated Olivia, in a 
dreamy voice. 

'Yes, you know. Do let me in now, that's a 
good creature. It's awful particular, I tell you. 
It's about Edward Arundel.' 

Edward Arundel ! The sound of that name 
seemed to act upon the woman's shattered nerves 
like a stroke of electricity. The drooping head 
reared itself erect. The eyes, so lustreless be- 
fore, flashed fire from their sombre depths. Com- 
prehension, animation, energy returned, as sud- 
denly as if the wand of an enchanter had sum- 
moned the dead back to life. 

•Edward Arundel !' she cried, in a clear voice, 
that was utterly unlike the dull deadness of her' 
usual tones. 

'Hush!' whispered Mr. Weston; 'don't speak 
loud, for goodness gracious sake. I dessay there's 
ill manner of spies about. Let me in, and I'll 
tell you every thing.' 

'Yes, yes; I'll let you in. The door by the 
lobby — 1 understand; come, come.' 

Olivia'disappeared from the window. The lob- 
by of which the surgeon had spoken was close 
to her own apartment. She found the key in the 
! ock of the door. The place was dark; she 
opened the door almost noiselessly, and Mr. 
Weston crept in on tip-toe. He followed Olivia 
into the study, closed the door behind him, and 
drew a long breath. 

'I've gotin,' he said; 'and now I am in, wild 
horses shouldn't hold me from speaking my mind, 
much less Paul Marehmont. ' 

He turned the key in the door as he spoke, 
and, even as he did so, glanced rather suspiciously 
toward the window. To his mind the very at- 
mosphere of that house was pervaded by th"e 
presence of his brother-in-law. 

'Oh, Mrs. John!' exclaimed the surgeon, in 
piteous accents, 'the way that I've been put 
upon! You've been put upon. Mrs. John, but 
you don't seem to mind it; and perhaps it's better 
fo bring one's self to that, if one can; but I can't. 
I 've tried to bring,my?elf to it; I've even taken to 
drinking, Mrs. John, much as it goes against me; 
and I've tried to drown my feelings as a man in 
rum-and-water. But the more spirits I consume, 
Mrs. John, the more of a man I feel.' 

Mr. Weston struck the lop of his hat with his 
clenched fist, and stared fiercely at Olivia, 
breathing very hard, and breathing rum-and-water 
with a faint odor of lemon-peel. * 

'Edward Arundel ! — what about Edward Arutf- 
del ?' said Olivia, in a low, eager voice. 

'I'm coming to that, Mrs. John, in due 
e'eourse,' returned Mr. Weston, with an air of 
dignity that was superior even to hiccough. 
'What I say, Mrs. John,' he added, in a confi- 
dential and "argumentative tone, 'is this : / wont 
be put upon !' Here his voice sank to an awful 
w hi S per— 'Of course it's pleasant enough to have 
one 's rent provided for, and not to be kept awake 
by poor's rates, Mrs. John; but, good gracious 
me! I'd rather have the Queen's taxes and the 
poor ra,tes following me up day and night, and a 
man in possession to provide for at every meal— 



and you don't know how contemptuous a man in j 'I ain't mad, Mrs. John, any more than — ' Mr. 
possession can look at you if you offer him salt J "Weston was going to say, 'than you are;' but it 
butter, or your table in a general way don't meet >. struck him that, under existing circumstances, 
bis views — than the conscience I've had since \ the comparison might be ill-advised — '1 ain't any 
Paul Marchmont came into Lincolnshire. I feel, \ madder than other people,' he said, presently. 
Mrs. John, as if I'd committed oceans of mur- J 'Edward Arundel is going to be married. 1 have 
ders'. It's a miracle tome that my hair hasn't < ; seen the young lady in Kemberling with her Pa; 
turned white before this; and it would have done < and she's a very sweet young woma$i to look at; 
it, Mrs. J., if it wasn't of that stubborn nature < and her name's Belinda Lawford; and the wed- 
w'hich is too wiry to give expression to a man's j ding is to be at eleven o'clock to-morrow morn- 
sufferings. Oh, Mrs. John, when I think how j ing, at Hillingsworth Church.' 
my pangs of conscience have been made game of* Olivia slowly lifted her hands to her head; and 
—when I remember the insulting names I have > swept the loose hair away from her brow. All 
been called, because my heart didn't happen to be ; the mists that had obscured her brain melted 
made of adamant, my blood boils; it boils, Mrs. ; slowly away, and showed her the past as it had 
John,_ip that degree that I feel the time has come ) really been in all its naked horror. Yes; step by 
for action. I have been put upon until the spirit > step the cruel hand had urged her on from bad to 
of manliness within me blazes up like a fiery fur- i worse; from bad to worse; until it had driven h'er 
nace. I've been trodden upon, Mrs. John; but I here. 

I'm not the worm they took me for. To-day It was for this that she had sold her soul to the 
they've put the finisher upon it.' The surgeon j powers of hell. It was for this that she had 
paused to take breath. His mild and rather sheep- j helped to torture that innocent girl whom a dying 
like countenance was flushed; his fiuff'y eyebrows father had given into her pitiless hand. For this ! 
i twitched convulsively in his endeavors to give ex- j for this ! To find at last that all her iniquity had 
pression to the violence of his feelings. 'To-day been wasted, and that Edward Arundel had 
they've put the finisher upon it,' he repeated. \ chosen another bride — fairer, perhaps, than the 
'I'm to go to Australia, am 1? Ha ! ha! we'll see \ first. The mad, unholy jealousy of her nature 
about that. There's a nice opening in the medi- awoke from the obscurity of mental decay, a 
cal line, is there? and dear Paul will provide the j fierce ungovernable spirit. But another spirit 
funds to start, me! Ha! ha! two can play at { arose in ihe next moment. Conscience, which 
that game. It's all brotherly kindness, of course, j so long had slumbered, awoke, and cried to her, 
and friendly interest in my welfare — that's what J in an awful voice, 'Sinner, whose sin has been 
it's called, Mrs. J. Shall I tell 'you what it is ? J wasted, repent ! restore ! It is not yet too late. ' 
I'n» to be got rid of, at any price, for fear my ' The stern precepts of her religion came back 
conscience should get the botler of me, and I ) to her. She had rebelled against those rigid laws, 
should speak. I've been made a tool of, and I've \ she had cast off those iron fetters, only tola)] into 
been put upon; but they've been obliged to trust [ a worse bondage; only to submit to a stronger 
me. I've got a conscience, and I don't suit their ; tyranny. She had been a servant of the God of 
views. If I hadn't got a conscience, I might stop J Sacrifice, and had rebelled when an offering 'was 
here and have my rent -and taxes provided for, ' demanded.of her. She nad cast off the yoke of 

her Master, and had yielded herself up the slave 
of sin. And now, when she discovered whither 
her chains had dragged her, she was seized with 
a sudden panic, and wanted to go back to her old 

She stood for some minutes with her open 
palms^pressed upon her forehead, and her chest 
heaving as if # a stormy sea had raged in her 

and riot in rum-and-water to the end of my days. 
But I've a conscience that all the pine-apple rum 
in Jamaica wouldn't drown, and they're fright- j 
ened of me.' , 

Olivia had listened to all this with an impa- , 
tient frown upon her face. I doubt if she knew ' 
the meaning of Mr. Weston's complaints. She j 
had been listening only for the one name that had j 
power to transform her from a breathingautom- bosom 

aton into a living, thinking, reasoning woman. ] 'This marriage must not take place,' she cried, 
She grasped the surgeon's wrist fiercely. j at last. 

'You told me you came here to speak about j 'Of course it musn't,' answered Mr. Weston; 
Edward Arundel,' she said. 'Have you been only j 'didn't I say so justnow? And if you don't speak 
trying to make a fool Of me?' J to Paul and prevent it, I will. I'd rather you 

'No, Mrs. John; I have come to speak about j spoke to him", though,' added the surgeon, 
him, and I pome to you, because I think you're thoughtfully; 'because, you, see, it would come 
not so .bad as Paul Marchmont. I think that better from you, wouldn't it, now?' 
you've been a tool, like myself; and they've led | Olivia Marchmont did not answer. Her hands 
you on, step by step, from bad to worse, pretty < had dropped from her head, and she was standing 
much as they have led me. You're Edward Arun- J looking at the floor. 

del's blood relation, and it's your business to look j 'There shall be no marriage,' she muttered, 
to any wrong that's done him more than it is with a wild laugh. 'There's another heart to be 
~ ' '" ' ' ' "' * ' "j broken — that's all. Stand aside, man,' she cried; 

! 'stand aside, and let me go to him; let me go to 

mine. But if you don't speak, Mrs. John, I will 
Edward Arundel is going to be married.' 

'Going to be married !' The words burst from 
Olivia's lips in a kind of shriek, and she stood 
glaring hideously at the surgeon, with her lips 
apart and her eyes dilated. Mr. "Weston was 
fascinated by the horror of that gaze, and stared 
at her in silence for some moments. 'You are a 
madman!' she exclaimed, after a pause; 'you are 

She pushed the terrified surgeon out of her 
pathway, unlocked the door, hurried along the 
passage and across the hall. She opened the 
door of the western drawing-room and went in. 

Mr. Weston stood in the corridor looking after 
her. He waited for a few minutes, listening for 

a madman ! Why do you come here with your any sound that might come from the western 
idiotic fancies? Surely my life is miserable 1 drawing-room. But the wide stone hall was be- 

enough without this ! 

'tween him and that apartment; and however 



loudly the voices might have been uplifted, no j points tightening upon his neck 
breath of them could have reached the surgeon's \ of Olivia. 

He was afraid 

ear. He waited for about five minutes, and then 
crept into the lobby and let himself out into the 

'At. any rate, nobody can say .that I'm a cow- 
ard,' he thought complacently, as he went Under 
a stone arch*ay that led into the park. 'But 
what a whirlwind that woman is! O my gra- 
cious, what a perfect whirlwind she is !' 



'My dear Mrs. John, what is it you want of 
me ?' he said, hastily. 'Pray do not be violent.' 
'1 am not violent.' 

She dropped her hand from his breast. It was' 
true, she was not violent. Her voice was low; 
her hand fell loosely by her side. But Paul was 
frightened of her, nevertheless; for he saw that 
if she was not violent, she was something worse 
■ — she was dangerous. 

:* 'Did George Weston tell me the truth just 
j now ?' she said. 

Paul bit his nether lip savagely. George Wes- 
; ton had tricked him, then, after all, and had com- 
municated with this woman. But what of that? 
; She would scarcely be likely to trouble herself 
! , about this business of Edward Arundel's mar- 
Paul Marchmont was still strolling hither and ; riage. She must be past any such folly as that, 
thither about the room, admiring his pictures, J She would not dare to interfere in the matter, 
and smiling to himself at the recollection of the •' She could not. 

easy manner in which he had obtained George; 'Is it true?' she said; Hs it? I3 it true that 
Weston's consent to the Australian arrangement, j Edward Arundel is going to be married to- 
For in his sober moments the surgeon was ready j. morrow?' 

to submit to any thing his wife and brotber-in- ; She waited, looking with fixed, widely-opened 
law imposed upon him. It was only under the j eyes at Paul's face. 

influence of pine-apple rum that his manhood as- ( 'My dear Mrs." John, you take me so corn- 
serted itself. Paul was still contemplating his \ pletely by surprise that I — ' 
pictures when Olivia burst into the room; butj 'That you have not got a lying answer ready 
Mrs. Marchmont and her invalid daughter had j for me,' said Olivia, interrupting him. 'You need 
retired for the night, and the artist was alone— ; not trouble yourself to invent one. I see that 
alone with his own thoughts, which were rather! George Weston told me the truth. There was 
of a triumphal and agreeable character just now; j reality in his words. There is nothing but false- 
for Edward's marriage and Mr. Weston's depar- hood in yours.' " 

tare. were equally pleasant to him. ^ ! Paul stood looking at her, but not listening 

Ha was startled a little by Olivia's abrupt en- j to her. Let her abuse and upbraid him to her 
trance; for it was not her habit to intrude upon heart's content; it gave him leisure to reflect, and 
him or any member of that household; on the J plan his course of action; and perhaps these bit- 
contrary, she had shown an obstinate determina- ! ter words might exhaust the fire within her, and 

lion to shut herself up in her own room, and to 
avoid every living creature except her servant 
Barbara Simmons. 

Paul turned and confronted her very deliber- 
ately, and with the smile that was almost habit- 
ual to him upon his thin, pale lips. Her sudden 

leave tier malleable to his skillful hands once 
more. He had time to think this, and to settle 
his own line of conduct while Olivia was speak- 
ing to him. It was useless to deny the marriage. 
She had heard of it from George Weston, and 
she might hear of it from any one else whom she 

appearance had blanched his face a little; but be- < chose to interrogate. It was useless to try to 

yond this he betrayed no sign of agitation. 

'My dear Mrs. Marchmont, yo« quite startle 
me. . It is so very unusual' to see you here, and at 
this hour especially.' 

It did not seem as if she had heard his voice. 
She went sternly up to him, with her thin list- 
less arms hangirig at her side, and her haggard 
eyes fixed upon his face. 

'Is this true?' she asked. 

He started a little, in spite of himself; for he > word he spoke 
understood in a moment what she meant. Some ; 'You mean to let this be 
one, it scarcely mattered who, had told her of) he had finished speaking. 

stifle this fact. 
j 'Yes, Mrs. John,' he said, 'it is quite true. 
j Your cousin, Mr. Arundel, is going to marry Be- 
! linda Lawford; a very lucky thing for us, believe 
I me, as it will put an end to all questioning and 

watching and suspicion, and place us beyond all 

( Olivia looked at him, with her bosom heaving, 
j her breath growing shorter and louder with every 

then?' she said, when 

'To let what be?' 

'This marriage. You will let it take place?' 
'Most certainly. Why should I prevent it?' 
'Why should you prevent it ?' she cried, fiercely; 
and then, in an altered voice, in tones of an- 
guish, that were like a wail of despair, she ex- 

the coming marriage. 

'Is what true, my dear Mrs. John?' he said,/ 
carelessly. ■ J 

'Is this true that George Weston tells me?' she 
cried, laying her thin hfand upon his shoulder. J 
Her wasted fingers closed involuntarily upon the ! . 

collar of his coat, her thin lips contracted into a ., claimed, 'O my God ! my God ! what a dupe I 
ghastly smile, and a sudden fire kindled'in her /have been; what a miserable tool in this man's 
eyes. A strange sensation awoke in the tips of 'hands! O my offended God ! why didst Thou so 
those tightening fingers, and thrilled through J: abandon me, when I turned away from Thee, and 
every vein of the woman's body — such a horrible > t made Edward Arundel the idol of my wicked 
thrill as vibrates along the nerves of a monoma- ? heart ?' 

niac, when the sight of a dreadful terror in his' Paul sank into the nearest chair, with a faint 
victim's face first arouses the murderous impulse!; sigh of relief, 
in his breast. 5 'She will wear herself out,' he thought, 'and 

Paul's face whitened as he felt the thin finger- < then I shall be able to do what I like with her.' 


But Olivia turned to him again while he was ! this woman had made him a little nervous, and 
thinking this. j jt W£is as muc h as he could do to find the handle 

'Do you imagine that / will -]<jt this marriage , of the key. 'No, no, my dear Mrs. John; you 
take place? she asked. ; shall not leave this house, nor this room, in your 

'I do not think you will be so mad as to pre- ■ present state of mind. If you choose to be vio- 
vent it. That little mystery which you and I lent and unmanageable, we will give you the full 
have arranged between us is not exactly child's ' benefit of your violence, and we will give you a 
jplay, Mrs. John. We can neither of us afford to better sphere of action. A padded room will 
betray the other. Let Edward Arundel marry. ; be more suitable to your present temper, my dear 
and work for his wife, and be happy; nothing ! madam. If you favor us with this sort of con- 
could be better for us than his marriage. Indeed, ; duct, we will find people more fitted to restrain 
we have every reason to be thankful to Provi- ; you.' 

dence for the turn that affairs have taken,' Mr. j He said all this in a sneering tone, that had a 
Marchmont concluded, piously. ; trifling tremulousness in it, while he locked the 

'Indeed!' said Olivia: 'and Edward Arundel is ' door, and assured himself that it was safely se- 
to have another bride. He is to be happy with ; cured. Then he turned, prepared to fight the 
another wife; and I am to hear of their' happi- ' battle out somehow or other, 
ness, to see him some day, perhaps, sitting by her ; At the very moment of his turning there was a 
side and smiling at her, as I have seen him smile ', sudden crash, a shi'ver of broken glass, and the 
at Mary Marchmont. He is to be happy, and I ; cold night wind blew into the room. One of the 
am to know of his happiness. Another baby- ; long French windows was wide open, and Olivia 
faced girl is to glory in the knowledge of his love, ; Marchmont was gone. 

and I am .to be quiet — I am to be quiet. Is it for \ He was out upon the terrace in the next mo- 
this that I have sold my soul to you, Paul March- ' ment; but even then he was too late, for he could 
mont? Is it for this I have shared your guilty ,- not see her right or left of him upon the long 
secrets? Is it for this I l|ave heard her feeble '/ stone platform. There were three separate 
wailing sounding in my wretched feverish slum- j flights of steps, three different paths, widely di- 
bers, as I have heard it every night since the day verging across the broad grassy flat before March- 
she left this house? Do you remember what you ] mont Towers. She might have gone either way. 
sajd tome? Do you remember how it was you > There was the great porch, and all manner of 
tempted me? Do you remember how you played > stone abutments along the grim facade of the 
upon my misery, and traded on the tortures of \ house. She might have concealed herself be- 
my jealous heart? "He has despised your love," > hind any one of them. The night was hopelessly 
you said; "will you consent to see him happy with Jdark. A pair of handsome bronze lamps, which 
anothe*r woman?" That was your argument, (Paul had placed before the principal doorway. 
Paul Marchmont. You allied yourself with the 5 only made two spots of light in the gloom. He 
devil that held possession of my breast, and to- Iran along the .terrace, looking into every nook 
geiher you were too strong for me.. I was set ; and corner which might have served as a hiding- 
apart to be damned, andyou were the chosen in- /place; but he did not find Olivia. 

strument of my damnation. You bought my < She had left the house with the avowed in- 
soul, Paul Marchmont. You shall not cheat me Stention of doing something to prevent the mar- 
of the price for which I sold it. You shall hinder \ riage. What would she do ? What course would 
this marriage.' Uhis desperate woman take in her jealous rage? 

'You are a mad woman, Mrs. John March- 1 Would she go straight to Edward Arundel and 
mont, or you would not propose any such thine:.' < tell him — * 

'Go,' she said, pointing to the door; 'gb to Ed- I Yes; this was most likely; for how else could 
ward Arundel, and do something, no matter what, 5 she hope to prevent the marriage ? 
to prevent this marriage.' \ Paul stood quite still upon the terrace for a 

'I shall do nothing of the kind.' ; few minutes, thinking. There was only one 

He had heard that a monomaniac was always ; course for him. To try and find Olivia would be 
to be subdued by indomitable resolution, and he ; next to hopeless. There were half a dozen out- 
looked at Olivia, thinking to tame her by his un-; lets from the park. There were ever so many 
faltering glance". He might about as well have ', different pathways through the woody labyrintn 
tried to look the raging sea into calmness. ;' at the back of the Towers. This v/oma* might 

'I am not a fool, Mrs. John Marchmont,' he ; have taken any one of them. To waste the night 
said, 'and I shall do nothing of the kind.' ^in searching for her would be worse than^|eJess. 

He had risen, and stood by the lamp-lit table,;! There was only one thing to be done. He 
trifling rather nervously with its elegant*] itter of < t must counter-check this desperate creature's 
delicately-bound books, jeweled-handled paper- ^movements. 

knives, newly-cut periodicals, and pretty ifo- i He went, back to the drawing-room, shut the 
manly toys collected by the women of the house- 'window,. and then rang the bell, 
hold. j There were not many of the old servants who 

The faces of the two were nearly upon a level ! had waited upon John Marchmont at the Towers 
as they stood opposite to each other, with only j now. The man who answered the bell was a 
the table between them. j person whom Paul had brought down from Lon- 

'Then I will prevent it !' Olivia cried, turning idon. 
tbward'the door. ^ ! i(j e t the chestnut saddled for me, Peterson,' 

Paul M>irchmont saw the resolution stamped ! said Mr. Marchmont. 'My lP oor cousin's widow 
upon her face. She would do what she threat-! has left the house, and I am going after her. 
ened. He ran to the door and had his hand <She has given me very great alarm to-night by 
upon the lock betore she could reach it. {her conduct. I tell you this in confidence- but 

•No, Mrs, John, he said standing at the door, ; you can say as much to Mrs. Simmons, who 
with his back turned to ©lma, and his fingers {knows more about her mistress than I do. See 
busy with the bolts and key. In spite of himself, i that there's no time lost in saddling the chest. 


nut. I want to overtake this unhappy woman if $ the horse's bridle to one of these, and went up 
1 can. Go and give the order, and then bring me , the steps. He rang a bell that went clanging and 
my hat.' ' t jangling through the house in the stillness of the 

The man went away to obey his master. Paul ■'/ summer night. All the way along the road he 
walked to the chimney-piece and looked at the ', had looked right and left, expecting to pass 
clock. < Olivia; but he had seen no sign of her. This was 

'They'll be gone to bed at the Grange,' heinothing, however; for there were by-ways by 
thought to himself. 'Will she go there ana knocks which she might come from Marchmont Towers 
them up, I wonder? Dt>es she know that Ed- \ to Lawford Grange. 

ward's there? I doubt that; and yet Weston \ 'I must be before her, at any rate,' Paul 
may have told her. At any rate, I can be there ', thought to himself, as he waited patiently for an 
before her. It would take her a long lime to get ^answer to his summons. 

there on foot. I think 1 did the right thing in ', The time seemed very long to him, of course; 
saying what I said to Peterson. I must have the '/ but at last he saw a light glimmering through the 
report of her madness spread every where. 1 ', mansion windows, and heard a shuffling foot in 
must face it out. But how — but how? So long ', the hall. Then the door was opened very cau- 
as she was quiet I could manage every thing. But '/ tiously, and a woman 's scared face peered out at 
with her against me, and George Weston — oh, / Mr. Marchmont through the opening, 
the cur, the white-hearted villain, after all that '/ 'What is it?' the woman asked, in a frightened 
I've done for him and Lavinia ! But what can 'a J voice. 

man expect when he's obliged to put his trust in ', 'It is I, Mr. Marchmont, of Marchmont Tow- 
afool?' Jers. Your master knows me. Mr. Arundel is 

He went to the window, and stood there look- ', here, is he not?' 
ing out until he saw the groom coming along the ', 'Yes, and Mrs. Arundel, too; but they're all 
gravel roadway below the terrace, leading a horse 'abed.' 

by the bridle. Then he put on the hat that the '/ 'Never mind that. J must see Major Lawford 
servant had brought him, ran down the steps, and ' immediately.' 
got into the saddle. ', 'But they're all abed.' 

•All right, Jeffreys,' he said; 'tell them not to ', 'Never mind that, my good woman; I tell you 
expect me back till to-morrow moxning. Let; I must see him.' 

Mrs. Simmons sit up for her mistress. Mrs. John ', 'But won't to-morrow mornin' do? It's near 
may return at any hour in the night.' '/ three o'clock, and to-morrow's our eldest miss's 

He galloped away along the smooth carriage- / weddin'-day, and .they're all abed.' 
drive. At the lodge he stopped to inquire if any / 'I mast see your master. For mercy's sake, 
one had been through that way. No, the woman '/ my good woman, do what I tell -you. Go and 

said; she had opened the gates for no one. Paul /call up Major Lawford— you can do it quietly 

had expected no other answer.. There was a J and tell him I must speak to him at once.' 
footpath that led to a little wicket gate opening^ The woman, with the chain of the door still 
on the high-road; and of course Olivia had chosen £ between her and Mr. Marchmont, took a timid 
that way, which was a good deal shorter than Jsurvey of Paul's face. She had heard of him 
the carriage-drive. ^often enough, but had never seen him before, 

iand she was rather doubtful as to his identity. 

cot , /She knew that thieves and robbers resorted to 

'all sorts of tricks in the course of their evil vo- 

/ cation. Mightn't this application for admittance 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. ;Jin the dead of the night be only a part of some 

THE TURNING OP THE TIDE ^"^flT ^ ^^ ^ S P°°°S and forks, 

>and that hereditary silver urn with hons' heads 
It was past two o'clock in the morning of the /holding rings in their mouths for handles, the 
day which had been appointed for Edward Arun- i fame of which had no doubt circulated through- 
del's wedding, when Paul Marchmont drew rein? out all Lincolnshire! Mr. Marchmont had nei- 
before the white gate that divided Major Law- / ther a black mask nor a dark lantern, and to Mar- 
ford's garden 'from the high-road. There was itha Philpot's mind these were essential attributes 
no lodge, no pretense of grandeur here. An old-; of the legitimate burglar; but he might be bur- 
fashioned garden surrounded an old-fashioned /glariously disposed, nevertheless, and it would be 
red-bjjpk house. There was an apple-orchard /well to be on the safe side. 

upon one side of the low while gate, and a 5 'I'll go and tell 'em,' the discreet Martha said, 
ilower-garden, with a lawn and fish-pond, upon /civilly; *ut perhaps you won't mind my leaving 
the other. The carriage-drive wound sharply | the chain oop. It ain't like, as if it was winter,' 
round to a shallow Eight of steps, and a broads she added, apologetically. 

door with a narrow window upon each side of it. 'You may shut the door if you like,' answered 
Paul got oil' his horse at the gate, and went in, Paul; 'only be quick and wake your master. You 
leading the animal by the bridle. He was a \ can tell him that I want to see him upon a matter 
cockney heart and soul, and had no sense of any j of life and death.' 

enjoyments that were not of a cockney nature. < Martha huiried away, and Paul stood upon the 
So the horse he had selected for himself was any > broad stone.steps waiting for her return. Every 
thing but a fiery creature. He liked plenty of (moment was precious to him, for he wanteti to be 
bone and very little blood in the steed he rode, (beforehand with Olivia. He had ho thought ex- 
and was contented to go at a comfortable jog- ; cept that she Would come straight to the Grange 
trot, seven-miles-an-hour pace, along the wretch- < to see Edward Arundel; unless, indeed, she was 
ed country roads. j by any chance ignorant of his whereabouts. 

There was a row of old-fashioned wooden \ Presently the light appeared again in the nar- 
posts, with iron chains swinging between them, ? row windows, and this time a man's foot sounded 
upon both sides of the doorway. Paul fastened \ upon the stone-flagged hall. This time, too, Mar- 


tha let down the chain, and opened, the door wide? 'Good gracious !' he exclaimed; 'you surprise 
enough for Mr. Marchmont to enter. She had no / me, Mr. Marchmont, and — and— rather unpleas- 
fear of burglarious marauders now that the valiant ' antly.' 
Major was at her elbow. i '1 should never have revealed this secret to you 

'Mr. Marchmont,' exclaimed the old soldier, } or to any other living creature, Major Lawford, 
opening a door leading into a little study, 'you'll ) had not circumstances compelled me to do so. As 
excuse me if I seem rather bewildered by your 'far as Mr. Arundel is concerned, I can set your 
visit. _ When an old fellow like me is called up in '/ mind quite at ease. He has chosen to insult me 
the middle of the night he can't be expected to' very grossly; but let that pass. I must doliim the 
have his wits about him just at first. Martha, ' state that I believe him to have been 
bring us a light. Sit down Mr. Marchmont.— ' from first to last utterly ignorant of the state of 
There's a chair at your elbow there. And now,' his cousin's mind.' 
may I ask the reason—' i 'I hope so, Sir; egad, I hope so !' exclaimed the 

'The reason I've disturbed you in this abrupt / Major, rather fiercely. ' If I thought that this 
manner. The occasion that brings me here is a / young man had trifled with the lady's affection; 
very painful one; but I believe that my (joining 'if I thought—' 
may save you and yours from much annoyance.'? 'You need think nothing to the detriment of Mr. 

'Save us from annoyance ! Really, my dear' Arundel,' answered Paul, with placid politeness, 
Sir, you—' ', 'except that he is hot-headed, obstinate, and fool- 

'I mystify you for the moment, no doubt,' Paul j ish. He is a young man of excellent principles, 
interposed, blandly; 'but if you will have a little ' and has never fathomed the secret of his cousin's 
patience with me, Major Lawford, I think I can j conduct toward him. I am rather a close ob- 
make every thing very clear — only too painfully i server — something of a student of human nature- 
clear. You have heard of my relative, Mrs., John ] and I have watched this unhappy woman. She 
Marchmont — my cousin's widow?' 'love3,.and has loved, her cousin Edward Arundel; 

'I have,' answered the Major, gravely. '/ and hers is one of those concentpative natures in 

The dark scandals that had been current about / which a great passion is near akin to a monoma- 
wretched Olivia Marchmont came into his mind \ nia. It was this, hopeless, unreturned affection 
with the mention of her name, and the memory / that embittered her character, and made her a 
of those miserable slanders overshadowed his / harsh step-mother to my poor cousin Mary. For 
frank face. ja long time this wretched woman has been very 

Paul waited while Martha brought in a smoky quiet; but her tranquility has been only a deceitful 
lamp, with tbe half-lighted wick sputtering and (calm. To-night the storm broke*. Olivia March- 
struggling in its oily socket. Then he went on, in \ mont heard of the marriage that is to take place 

a calm, dispassionate voice, which seemed the! 
voice of a benevolent Christian, sublimely remote ' 
from other people's sorrows, but tenderly pitiful 
of suffering humanity, nevertheless. 

'You have heard of my unhappy cousin. You ; 
have no doubt heard that she is — mad?' 

He dropped his voice into so low a whisper thai 
he only seemed to shape this last word with his- 
thin, flexible lips. 

'I have heard some rumor to that effect,' the 
Major answered; 'that is to say, I have hearr 
that Mrs, John. Marchmont has lately become ec- 
centric in her habits.' 

'It has been my dismal task to watch the slow 
decay of a very powerful, intellect,' continue( 
Paul. 'When I first came to Marchmont Towers, 

to morrow; and. for the first time a state of mel- 
ancholy mania developed into absolute violence. 
She came to me, and attacked me upon the sub- 
ject of this intended marriage. She accused me 
of having plotted to give Edward Arundel another 
bride; and then, after exhausting herself by a tor- 
rent of passionate invective against me, against 
herpousin Edward, your daughter — every one con- 
cerned in to-morrow's event — this wretched wo- 
nan rushed out of the house in a jealous fury, de- 
slaring that she would do something — no matter 
vhat — to hinder the celebration of Edward Arun- 
nel's second marriage.' 

'Good Heavens !' gasped the Major. 'And you 
nean to say — ' 

I mean to say, that there is no knowing what 

about the time of my cousin Mary's unfortunate , m& y ^ attempted by a mad woman, driven mad 
elopement with Mr. Arundel, that mental deca;, p y a j ea lousy in itself almost as. terrible as mad- 
had already set in. Already the compass of Olivia , ness Olivia Marchmont has sworn to hinderyour 
Marchmont's mind had become reduced to a mon- , ; ,j aug; hter's marriage. What has not been done by 

otone, and the one dominant thought was doint 
its ruinous work. It was my fate to find the clew 
to that sad decay; it was my fate very speedily to 
discover the nature of that all-absorbing though! 
which, little by little, had grown into monoma- 

•'/ unhappy creatures in this woman's state of mind ? 
;J Kvery day we read of such things in the newspa- 
', pers — deeds of horror at which the blood grows 
£ cold in our veins; and we wonder that Heaven 
' t can permit such misery. It is not any frivolous 
>, motive that brings me here in the dead of the 

Major Lawford stared at his visitor's face. He , nightj Maj or Lawford. I come to tell you that a 
was a plain-spoken man, and could scarcely see /desperate woman has sworn to hinder to-morrow's 
clearly through all this obscurity of fine J marriag 

his way 

'You mean to say you found out what had driven '/ 
your cousin Widow, mad?' he said, bluntly. 

ge. Heaven knows what she may do in her 

ealous frenzy. She may attack your daughter.' 

/ The father's face grew pale. His Linda, his 

You put the question very plainly,' Ma jor Law- \ ^""S' e ?P osed l " the fur y ° f * mad w .°™* ! . He 
ford. Yes; I discovered the secret of my unhappy °°" ,d ^njure up the scene; the fair g.rl clinging 
relative's morbid state of mind. Thatsecret lies to her l0Ver ? hr ? St ' antl des P era ,-f 01,T * M&rct " 
in the fact, that for the last ten years Olivia \ mont SW00 P in S down upon her like an angry ti- 
Marchmont has cherished a hopeless affection for J S ress - 
her cousin, Mr. Edward Arundel.' '. 'For mercy's sake, tell me what 1 am to do, Mr. 

The Major almost bounded off his chair in hor-5 Marchmont!' cried the Major. 'God bless you, 
rifled surprise. ) gi r . for bringing ms this warning.* But what am 


I to do ? What do you advise ? Shall we post j \ let for some years; and the farm was in the charge 
pone the wedding?' ! of a hind in Mr. Marchmont's service. The hind 

'On no account. A)l you have to do is to keep , Jived in a cottage at the other extremity of the 
this wretched woman at bay. Shut your doors ', farm; and Paul had erected new buildings, with 
upon her. Do not let her be admitted to this > engine-houses and complicated machinery for 
house upon -any pretense whatever. Get the wed- \ pumping (he water off the low-lying lands. Thus it 
ding over an hour earlier than has been intended, if J was that the old farm-house and the old farm-yard 
it is possible for you to do so, and hurry the bride j were suffered to fall ft)to decay. The empty sties, 
and bridegroom away upon the first stages of their J the ruined barns and outhouses, the rotting straw, 
wedding-tour. If you wish to escape all the ! and pools of rank corruption, made this tenant- 
wretchedness of a public scandal, avoid seeing ' less farm-yard the very abomination of desola- 
this woman.' < tion. Paul Marchmont opened the gate and 

'I will, I will,' answered the bewildered Major, j went in. He picked his way very cautiously 
'It's a most awful situation. My poor Belinda ! J through the mud and filth, leading his horse by 
Her wedding-day ! And a mad woman to attempt j the bridle till he came to an outhouse, where he 
— . Upon my word, Mr. Marchmont, 1 don't secured the animal. Then he picked his way 
know how to thank you for the trouble you have ? across the yard, lifted the rusty latch of a narrow 
taken.' ( wooden door set in a plastered wall, and went 

'Don't speak of that. This woman is my cou- ) into a dismal stone court, where one lonely hen 
sin's widow: any shame of hers is disgrace to me. j was moulting in miserable solitude. 
Avoid seeing her. If by any chance she does con- <; Long rank grass grew in the interstices of the 
trive to foree herself upon you, turn a deaf ear \ flags. The lonely hen set up a roopy cackle, and 
to all she may say. She horrified me to-night by ) fluttered into a corner at sight of Paul March- 
her mad assertions. Be prepared for any thing / mont. There were some rabit-hutches, tenant- 
she may declare. She is possessed by all manner j less; a dove-cote, empty; a dog-kennel, and a 
of delusions, rg member, and may make the most 5 broken chain rusting slowly in a pool of water, 
ridiculous assertions. There is no limit to her \ but no dog. The court-ya'rd was at the back of 
hallucinations. She may offer to bring Edward } the house, looked down upon by a range of lat- 
Arundei's dead wife from the grave, perhaps. — j ticed windows, some with closed shutters, others 
But you will not, on any account, allow her to ob- j with shutters swinging in the wind, as if they had 
tain access to your daughter.' {been fain to beat themselves to death in very 

'No, no; on no account. My poof" Belinda ! I [ desolation of spirit. 
am very grateful to you, Mr. March'mont, for this \ Mr. Marchmont opened a door and went into 
warning. • You'll stop here for the rest of the the house. There were empty cellars and pan- 
night ? Martha's beds are always aired. You'll tries, dairies and sculleries, right and left of him. 
accept the shelter of our spare room until to-mor- \ The rats and mice scuttled away at sound of the 
row morning?' ^intruder's footfall. The spiders ran upon the 

'You are very good, Major Lawford; but Imusi \ lamp-stained walls, and the disturbed cobwebs 
hurry away directly. Remember that I am quite I floated slowly down from the craqked ceilings 
ignorant as to where my unhappy relative may be j and tickled Mr. Marchmont's face, 
wandering at this hour of the night. Shemayhavej Further on in the interior of the gloomy habi- 
returned to the Towers. Her jealous fury may j tation Paul found a great stone-paved kitchen, at 
have exhausted itself; and in that case Ihave ex- ', the darkest end of which there was a rusty grate, 
aggerated the danger. But, at any rate, 1 thought j in which a minimum of flame struggled feebly 
it best to give you this warning,' s with a maximum of smoke. Ah open oven-door 

'Most decidedly, my dear Sir; I thank you from ; revealed a dreary black cavern; and the very 
the bottom of my heart. But you'll take some- j manner of the rusty door, and loose, half-broken 
thing — wine, tea, brandy-and-water, — eh?' \ handle, was an advertisement of incapacity for 

Paul had put on his hat and made his way into s any homely hospitable use. Pale, sickly fungi 
the hall by this time. There was no affectation j had sprung up in clusters at the corners of the 
in his eagerness to be away. He glanced uneasily ; damp hearth-stone. Spiders and rats, damp and 
toward the' door every now and then while the cobwebs, every sign by which Decay writes its 
Major was offering hospitable hindrance to his de- j name upon the dwelling man has deserted, had 
paAure. He was very-pale, with a haggard, ashen , set its separate mark upon this ruined place, 
pallor that betrayed his anxiety, in spite of his -, Paul Marchmont looked round him with a con- 
bland calmness of manner. jtemptuous shudder. He called 'Mrs. Brown! 

'You are very kind. No; I will get away at j Mrs. Brown ! '-two or three times, each time wait- 
once. I have done my duty here; I must now try ing for an answer; but none came, and Mr. 
and do what I can for this wretched woman. — ; Marchmont passed on into another room. 
Good-night. Remember; shut your doors upon ; Here at least there was some poor pretense of 
her.' ; comfort. The room was in the front of the house, 

He unfastened the bridle of his horse, mounted, '< and the low latticed window looked out upon a 
• and rode away slowly, so long as there was any < neglected garden, where some tall fox-gloves 
chance of the horse's tread being heard at the j reared their gaudy heads among the weeds. 
Grange. But when he was a quarter of a mile j Across the garden there was a stout brick wall, 
away from Major Lawford's house, he urged the' with pe3r-trees trained against it, and dragon 's- 
horse into a gallop. He bad no spurs; but he used , mouth and wall-flower waving in the morning 
his whip with a ruthless hand, and went off at a j breeze. 

tearing'pace along a narrow lane, where the ruts ,; There was a bed in this room, empty; an easy- 
were deep. ; chair near the window; near that a little table, 

He rode for fifteen miles; and it was gray morn- j and a set of Indian chessmen. Upon the bed there 
ing when he drew rein at a dilapidated live-barred , were some garments scattered, as if but lately 
gate leading into the great, tenantless yard of an ! flung there; and upon the floor, near the fire- 
uninhabited ftirm-house. The place had been un- j place, there were the fragments of a child's first 


a baby's ratn™" 1 ^' b £ u S nt at some v » lla g e f air > \ license in this case; for Miss Lawford's chamber 
Pi nl IwJit' a " \ a , br ° ken horse. ; was a roomy, old-fashioned apartment at the 

nuzzled first th" l • ? oked ab °ut him; a little! back of the house, with deep window-seats and 
eard face a va S ue dread in his ha S" j diamond-paned casements. 

'Mrs Brown i' h ! The' sun shone, arid the roses .bloomed in all 

rvino-a'r-rn^ fhV C / Ied ' in a loud voice, hur- their summer glory. "Twas in the time of roses,' 

spoke toward an inner door as he as gentle-minded Thomas Hood so sweetly sang: 

Thp innm. a^ surely the time of all others for a bridal morning. 

rJnfc it oL aS opened before P a ul could The ^irl looked out into the sunshine, with her 

lnnW wnll W °?? an a PP ea red; a tall* gaunt- ) loose auburn hair falling about her shoulders, and 
brawny armT a hard face and ba r e > ! lingered a little, looking at the familiar garden, 

iWhpro • ' tr i I with a half-pensive smile. 

J'™' "i Heaven a name, have you been 'Oh, how often, how often,' she said, <I have 

f nSih > ' wonia f>?' Paul cried impatiently, walked up and down by those laburnums, Letty !' 

•Gone S 5 S,y ° Ur patlenti " There ' were two P rett y white-curtained bedsteads 

'Gone'* *Wh ?' ' ' n tbe o'dVashioned room, and Miss Arundel had 

rW) . I vvnere - shared her friend's apartment for the last week. 

t,«if \ r ste P-mamma, Mrs. Marchmont— not 'How often mamma and I have sat under the dear 

nan an ^iour ago. As it was your wish I should old pedar, making our poor children's frocks ! 

stop Demna to clear up, I've done so, Sir; but I People say monotonous lives are not happy: mine 

ma tninK it would have been better for me to J bas been the same thing over and over again; and 

nave gone with— 6t how happy j have been , And to thhlk that 

ram clutched the woman by the arm, and we'— she paused a moment, and the rosy color in 

dragged her toward hun. , her cheeks deepened by just one shade; it was so 

Are you mad? he cried, with an oath. 'Are sweet to use that simple monosyllable 'we' when 

you mad or drunk? Who gave you leave to let Edward Arundel was the other half of the pro- 

that woman go? Who—?' noun— 'to think that we shall be in Paris to-mor- 

He couldn t finish the sentence. His throat / row ! ' 
grew dry, and he gasped for breirth, while all the I 'Driving in the Bois,' exclaimed Miss Arundel, 
Diood in his body seemed to rush into his swollen 'dining at the Maison Doree, or the Cafe de Paris. 
torenead. Don't dine at Meunce's, Linda; it's dreadfully 

Kou sent Mrs. Marchmont to fetch my patient slow dining; at' one's hotel. And you'll be a young 
away, bir, exclaimed the woman, looking fright- / married woman, and can do any thing, you know, 
ened. _ You did, didn't you? She said so!' If I were a young married woman I'd ask my 

bhe is a liar; and you are a fool or a cheat, husband to take me to the Mabille, just for half 
fene paid you, I daresay! Can't you speak wo- ah hour, with an old bonnet and a thick veil. I 
man .. Has the person 1 left in your care, whoa',- knew a eirl whose first cousin married a cornet 
you were paid, and paid well, to take care of— i in the Guards, and they went to the Mabille one 
have you let her go ? Answer me that' ) night. Come, Belinda, if you mean to have 

1 have, Sir, the woman faltered— she was big / your back hair>done at all, you'd better sit down 
and brawny, but there was that in Paul March- > at once and let me commence operations.' 
monts face that frightened her, notwithstand-/ Miss Aiundel had stipulated that, upon this 
ln f~' see ' n g as it, was your orders.' /particular morning, she was to dress her friend's 

'iv h Wil1 do: '^ ried P aul Marchmont, holding £ hair; and she turned up the frilled sleeves of her 
up his hand, ancf looking at the woman with .a i white dressing-gown, and set to work in the ortho- 
ghastly smile; 'that will do. You have ruined >dox manner, spreading a uet-work of shining au- 
me; do you hear? You have undone-a work thai I burn tresses about Miss Lawford's shoulders, prior 
has cost me — . Oh, my God! why do I waste t to the weavinir of elaborate plaits that were to 
my breath in talking to such a creature as this? J make a crown for the fair youn^ bride. Leiitia's 
All my ploti, my difficulties, my struggles and i tongue went as fast as her fingers; but Belinda 
victories,! my long sleepless nights, my bad \ was very silent. 

dreams— has it all come to this? Ruin, unutter- 1 She was thinking of the bounteous' Providence 
able ruin, brought upon me by a mad woman !' ) hat had given her the man she loved for her hus- 
He sat down in the chair by the window, and ', iand. She had been on her knees in the early 
leaned upon the table, scattering the Indian chess- 4 morning, long before Letitia's awakening, breath- 
men with his elbow. He did not weep. Thatjingout innocent thanksgiving for the happiness 
relief — terrible relief though it is for 'a man's^ hat overflowed her fresh young heart. A wo- 
breast was denied him. He sat there with hi^ nan had need to be country-bred, and to have 
tace covered, moaning aloud. That helpless i oeen reared in the narrow circle of a happy 
moan was scarcely like the complaint of a man; i home, to feel as Belinda Lawford felt. Such 
it was rather like the hopeless, dreary utterance \ ove as hers is only given to bright and innocent 
°Mi, rUt ? S an S u ' sn ; ^ sounded like the miser- ? spirits, untarnished even by the knowledge of sin. 
able howling of a beaten cur. < t Down stairs Edward Arundel was making a 

^ wretched pretense of breakfasting ttte-artete with 

— •■+-* ', his future father-in-law. 

f . The Major had held his peace as to the un- 

CHAPTER XXXTX ^looked-for visitant of the past night. He had 

"^ > given particular orders that no stranger should 

Belindas wedding-day. ' be admitted to the house, and that was all. But, 

The sun shone upon Belinda Lawful* a < bein S ofa naturally frank, not to say loquacious 

ding-day. The birds were singing in tk * a~ > d i s P osition ' the weight of this secret was a very 

under her window as she opened the ■ latf S S< terrible burden to the honest half'pay soldier. 

looked out. ^The wort! lattice is hot a 7? i < He ate bis dry toast uneasi ly> looking at the door 

]g P oet,eal ;! every now and then, in the perpetual expectation 



of beholding that barrier burst open by mad $ pretty, irregular old place, lying in a little nook 
Olivia Marchmont. > under the shadow of a great yew-tree. Behind 

The breakfast was not a very cheerful meal, I the square Norman tower there was a row of 
therefore. I, don't suppose any ante-nuptiai ] poplars, black against the blue summer sky; and 
breakfast ever i§ very jovial. There was the between the low gate of the church-yard and the 
state banquet — the. wedding breakfast — to be i j;ray, moss-grown porch there was an avenue of 
eaten by-and-by; and Mrs. Lawford, attended S ;ood old elms. The rooks were calling to each 
by all the females of the establishment, was en- > other in the topmost branches of the trees as 
gaged in putting the last touches to the groups i Major Lawford 's carriage drew up at the church- 
of fruit and confectionery , the pyramid of flowers, '/ yard gate, 
and that crowning glory, the wedding-cake. / Belinda was a great favorite among the poor of 

'Remember, the still Hock and Madeira are J Hillingsworth parish, and the place had put on a 
to go round first, and then the sparkling; and tell { ^ala-day aspect in honor of her wedding. Gar- 
Gogram to be particular about the corks Martha,' I lands of honey-suckle and wild clematis were 
Mrs. Lawford said to her confidential maid, as ) twined about the stout oaken gate-posts. The 
she gave a nervous last look at the table; '1 was i school-children were gathered in clusters in the 
at a breadfast once^where a Champagne-cork hii / church-yard, with their pinafores full of fresh 
the bridegroom on the bridge of his nose at the i Sowers from shadowy lanes and from prim cot- 
very moment he rose tp return thanks; and being £ tage gardens — bright, homely blossoms, with the 
a nervous man, poor fellow! — in point of fact, he i morning dew still upon them, 
was a curate, and the bride was the rector's v The rector and his curate were standing in the 
daughter, with two hundred a year of her own— ] porch waiting for the coming of the bride; and 
it quite overcame him, and he didn't get over ii I there were groups of well-dressed people dotted 
""' L ' " ' '-<*--■' £ n( j now I must rui >about here and there in the drowsy sheltered 

all through the breakfast, 
and put on my bonnet.' 

There was nothing but putting on bonnets and 
pinning lace shawls, and wild outcries for hair- 
pins, and interchanging of little feminine services, 
upon the bedroom floor for the next half-hour. 

Major Lawford walked up and down the hall, 
putting on his white gloves, which were too large 
for him — elderly men's white gloves always art 
too large for them — and watching the door of the 
citadel. Olivia must pass over a father's body, 
the old stfldier thought, before she should anno} 
Belinda on her bridal morning. 

By-and-by the carriages came round to the door. 
The girl bridemaids came crowding down tht 
stairs, hustling each other's crisped garments 
and disputing a little in a sisterly fashion; ther 

't pews near the altar. There were humbler spec- 
' atbrs clustered under the low ceiling of the gal- 
lery — tradesmen's wives and daughters, radiant 
•vith new ribbons^ and whispering to one another 
n delighted anticipation of the show. 

Every body round about the Grange loved 
pretty, genial Belinda Lawford, and there was 
universal rejoicing because of her happiness. 

The wedding party came out of the vestry pre- 
sently ih appointed order; the bride with her head 
Irooping, and her face hidden by her veil; the 
bridemaids' garments making a fluttering noise as 
they came up the aisle, like the sound of. a'sum- 
ner breeze faintly stirring a field of corn. 

Then the grave voice of the rector began the 
service with the brief preliminary exordium; and 

auu uispuuug a mue in a sisieny jasnioii; uiei 7 service wiin me uriej preliminary exoruium; arm 
Letitia Arundel, with nine rustling flounces of J then, in a tone that grew more solemn with the 

white silk ebbing and .flowing and surging abou 
her, with a pleased simper upon her face; and 
then followed Mrs. Arundel, stately in silver-gra) 
moire, and Mrs. Lawford, in violet silk — until 
the hall was a show of bonnets and bouquets and 

And last of all, Belinda Lawford, robed ii 
cloud-like garments of spotless lace, with brida 1 
flowers trembling round her hair, came slowl} 
down the broad old-fashioned stair-case, to see 
her lover loitering in. the hall below. 

He looked very grave; but he greeted his bride 
with a tender smile. He loved her, but he could 
not forget. Even upon this his wedding-day th 

■ncreasing solemnity of the words, he went on to 
hat awful charge which is addressed especially 
to the bridegroom and the bride ,°' 

'I require and charge you both, as ye will 

inswer at the dreadful Day of Judgment, when 

Jhe secrete of all hearts shall be disclosed, that 

f either of you know any impediment why ye 

! nay not be lawfully joined together in matri- 

! non.v, ye do now confess it. For be ye well as- 

Uured — ' 

! The rector read no further; for a woman's 
! yoice from out the dusky shadows at the further 
I ;nd of the church cried 'Stop !' 

There was a sudden silence; people stared at 

1101 luigei. j^veu upuu una tns weuumg-uay nit > i uere was a suuuen silence; people siaieu ai 
haunting shadow of the past was with him: noi > ^ach other with pale, scared faces, and then 


to be shaken off'. 

He did not wait till Belinda reached the bottom 
of the staircase. There was a sort of ceremonial 
law to be observed, and he was not to speak to 
Miss Lawford upon this special morning until he 
met her in. the vestry at Hillingsworth Church-, 
so Letitia and Mrs,. Arundel hustled the young 
man into one of the carriages, while Major Law,- 
forecl ran to receive his daughter at the foot ol 
the 'stairs. 

The Arundel carriage drove off about five 
minutes before the vehicle that was to convey 
Major Lawford, Belinda, and as many of the 
girl bridemaids as could be squeezed into it with- 
out detriment to lace and muslin. The rest 
went with Mrs. Lawford in the third and last '< running. ^ . 
carriage. Hillingsworth Church was about three- 'Olivia, cried 
quarters of a mile from the. Grange.^ ilt was^a ( Heaven s name— 

urned in the direction whence the voice had 
•ome. The bride lifted her head for the first 
i ! ime since leaving the vestry, and looked round 
' lbout her, ashy pale and trembling. 

'Oh Edward, Edward!' she cried, 'what is 

The rector waited, with his hand still upon the 
open book. He waited, looking toward the other 
end of the chancel. He had no need to wait 
long: a woman, with a black veil thrown back 
from a white, haggard face, and with dusty gar- 
ments dragging upon the church-floor, came 
slowly up the aisle. 

Her two hands were clasped upon her breast, 
and her breath came in gasps, as if she had been 

Edward Arundel, 'what, in 



But Ma 

*v,„ J ° r Lawf °i'd stepped forward, and spoke I 
10 the rector. ; ' 

. P ™)' lethe r be got out of the way,' he said, 
in a low voice. '1 was warned of t j&. r was , 
quite prepared for some such disturbance.' He ! 
sank his v 0I ce to a- whisper. 'She is mad ." he I 
said, close m the rector's ear. 

I he whisper was like whispering in general- 
more distinctly audible than the rest of the! 
s Pf« cn : 0llv 'a Marchmont heard it. 

jyiad^until to-day,' she cried; 'but not mad to- 

But Olivia held the bridegroom's arm with a 
1 tightening grasp. 

J 'Come !' she said; 'come ! Are you turned to 
(stone, Edward Arundel? Is your love worth no 
| more than this? I tell you, your wife, Mary 
[ Marchmont, is* alive. Let those who doubt me 
! come and see for themselves.' 
: The eager spectators, standing up in the pews 
j or crowding in the narrow ajs'le, were only«too 
ready to respond to this invitation. > 

, n -j, ~, uu >, ., U o „.^ u w j Olivia led her cousin out into the church-yard; 

day. Uh,Ldward Arundel! a hideous wrong has she led him to the gate«where the carriages were 
been done by me and through me. Your wife— j waiting. The crowd fflfcked after them; and the 
y p ( u ^l wl ,~ j people outside began td cheer as they came out. 

My wife ! what of her ? She-—' j That cheer was the signal for which the school- 

_ 'she is alive!' gasped Olivia; 'an hour's walk i children had waited; and they set to work scat- 
from here. 1 came on toot. I was tired, and I j tering flowers upon the narrow pathway, before 
came slowly. I thought that I should be in time ) they looked up to see who was coming to tread 
to stop you before you got to the church; but! am j upon the rosebuds and jasmine, the woodbine and 
very vveak. I ran the last part of the way — ' ' seringa. Bjt they drew back, scared and won- 
She dropped her hands upon the altar-rails, i'dering, as Olivia came alongthe pathway, sweep- 
and seemed as if she would have fallen. The i ing those tender blossoms after her with her trail- 
rector put his arm about her to support her, and j ing black garments, and leading the pale bride- 
she went on : ; g r0 om by his arm. 

'1 thought I should have spared her this,' she ] She led him to the door of the carriage beside 
said, pointing to Belinda; 'but 1 can't help it. Jwhieh Major La wford's gray-haired groom was 
She must bear her misery as well as others. It J waiting, with a big white-saun favor pinned upon, 
ean't be worse lor her than it has been for others, i his breast, and a bunch of roses in his button- 
She must bear — ' (hole. There were favors in the horses' ears, and 
'My wife!' said Edward Arundel; 'Mary, my j favors upon the breasts of the Hillingsworth 
poor sorrowful darling— alive?' \ trades-people who supplied bread and butcher's 
Belinda turned away, and buried her face upon | meat and grocery to the famiiy at the Grange, 
her mother's shoulder. She could have borne i The bell-ringers up in the church-tower saw the 
any thing better than this. j crowd flock out of the porch, and thought the 
His heart — that supreme treasure, for which ( marriage ceremony was over. The jangling 
she had rendered up thanks to her God— had i bells pealed put upon the hot summer air as Ed- 
never been hers, after all. A word, a breath, and j ward stood by the church-yard gate, with Olivia 
she was forgotten ; his thoughts went back to that ! Marchmont by his side. 

other one. There was unutterable joy, there was 'Lend me your carriage,' he said to Major 
unspeakable tenderness in his tone, as he spoke I Lawford, 'and come with me. 1 must see the end 
of Mary Marchmont, though she stood by his side, i of this. It may be all a delusion; but 1 must see 
in all her foolish bridal finery, with her heartfthe end of it. If there is any truth in instinct, I 

believe that I shall see my wife— alive. 

He got into the carriage without further cere- 
mony, and Olivia and Major Lawford followed 

'Where is my wife?' the young man asked, let- 

newly broken. 

'Oh, mother,' she cried, 'take me away! take] 
mc away, before 1 die !' , ' 

Olivia flung herself upon her knees by thei 
altar-rails, where the pure young bride was to 

have knelt by her lover's side; this wretched sin- ting down the front window as he spoke, 
nercast herself down, sunk far below all common 'At Kemberling, at Hester Jobsou's.' 
thoughts in the black depth of her despair. 'Drive to Kemheriing,' Edward said to the 

'Oh, my sin, my sin !' she cried, with clasped, coachman — 'to Kemberling High Street, as fast 
hands lifted up above her head. 'Will God ever \ as you can go.' 

forgive my sin ? will God ever have pity upon ■ The man drove away from the church-yard 
me ? Can He pity, can He forgive, such guilt as gate. The humbler spectators, who were re- 
mine? Even this work of to-day is no atonement strained by no niceties of social etiquette, hur- 
to be reckoned against my wickedness. I was ried after the Vehicle, raising white clouds of 
jealous of her; 1 was jealous!' Earthly passion dust upon the high-road with their eager feet, 
was still predominant in this miserable breast. The higher classes lingered about the church- 
She rose suddenly, as if this outburst had never yard, talking to each other and wondering, 
been,, and laid her hand upon Edward Arundel's Very few people stopped to think of* Belinda 
arm. 5 Lawford. 'Let the stricken deer go weep.' A 

'Come!' she said; 'come!' ' stricken deer is a very uninteresting object when 

'To her — to Mary — my wife?' there are hounds in full chase hard by, and an- 

They had taken Belinda away by this time; but other deer to be hunted. 
Major Lawford stood looking on. He tried to j 'Since when has my wife been at Kemberliiig ?' 

draw Edward aside; but Olivia's hand upon the 
young man's arm held him like a vice. 

'She is mad,' whispered the Major. 'Mr. 
Marchmont came to me last night, and warned 
me of ah this. He told me to be prepared for , 
any thing; she has all sorts of delusions. Get 
her away, if you can, while I g0 and explain 
matters t .Belinda. Edward, if you have a spark 
of manly feeling, get this woman away.' ' 

Edward Arundel asked Olivia, as the carriage 
drove along the high-road between the two 

'Since daybreak this morning.' 

'Where was she before then ?' 

•At Stony-Stringford Farm-' 

•And before then ?' 

'In the pavilion over the boat-house at March- 


'My GoJ! . And — '' /her beloved visitor, and Edward carried his young 

The young man did not finish his sentence. He '/wife up to the clean, airy chamber. He went 
put his head out of the window looking toward \ back to the parlor to fetch the child. He carried 
Kemberling, and straining his eyes to catch the 'the fair-haired little one up stairs in his own arms; 
earliest sight of the straggling village street. !;but 1 regret to say that the infant showed an in- 

' Faster !,' he cried every now and then to the clination to whimper in his newly-found father's 
coachman; 'faster!' embrace. Edward Arundel went back to the sit- 

-in little more than half an hour from the time 'ting room presently, and sat down, waiting till 
at which it had left the church-yard gate the car-/ Hester should bring him fresh tidings of his wife, 
riage stopped before the little carpenter 's-shop. ! Olivia Marchmont stood by the window, with her 
Mr. Jobson's doorway was adorned by a painted 'eyes fixed upon Edward. 

representation of two \pry doleful-looking mutes/ 'Why don't you speak to me?' she said, pres- 
standing at a door; for "Hester's husband com-/ ent.:y. 'Can you find no words that are vile enough 
bined the more aristocratic avocation of under- < to -;/pnss your hatred of me? Is that why you 
taker with the homely trade of carpenter and /are silent.'' 
joiner. / 'No, Olivia,' answered the young man, calmly. 

Olivia Marchmont got out of the carriage be- ! 'I am silent, because I have nothing to say to you. 
fore either of tbe two men could alight to assist/ Why you have acted as you have acted — why you 
her. Power was t'.e supreme attribute of this! have chosen to be the tool of a black-hearted vil- 
woman's mind. Her purpose never faltered;! lair.— is an unfathomable mystery to me. I thank 
from the moment she bad left Marchmont Towers . God that you' conscience was aroused this day, 
until now she had known n^iiher rtst of body norland that you have at least hindered the misery of 
wavering of intention. Ian innocent girl. .But why you have kept my wife 

'Come,' she said to Edward Arundel, looking/ hidden from me— why you have been the accom- 
back as she stood upon the threshold of Mr. Job-/pliee of Paul Marchmont'&crime — is more than I 
bon's door; 'and you' too,' she added, turning to jean' even attempt to guess.' 

M/jjor Lawfoid — 'follow us, and see whether 1/ 'Not yet?' said Olivia, looking at bim with a 
am mad.' ;! strange smile. 'Even yet 1 am a mystery to you?' 

She' passed through the shop, and into that/ 'You are, indeed, Olivia.' 
prim, smart parlor in which Edward Arundel had / She turned aWay from him with a laugh, 
lamented his lost wife". ! 'Then 1 had better remain so fill the. end,' she 

The latticed windows were wide open, and the' said, looking out into the garden. But after a 
warm summer sunshine filled the room. ' moment's silence she turned her bead once more 

A girl, with loose traces of hazel-brown hair / toward the young man. 'I will speak,' she said; 
falling about her face, was sitting on the floor, £ '1 will speak, Edward Arundel. ] hope and believe 
looking down at a beautiful fair-haired nursling' tha't I have not long tolive, and that all my shame 
of a twelvemonth old. ' and misery, my obstinate wickedness, my guilty 

The girl was John Marchmont's daughter; the! passion, will come to an end, like a long feverish 
child was Edward Arundel's son. It was his (dream. O God, have mercy on my waking, and 
childish cry that the young man had heard upon / make it brighter than this dreadful sleep ! 1 loved 
that October night in the paviiion bj the water. ] you, Edward Arundel. You don.'t know^what 

'Mary Arundel,' said Olivia, in a hard voice, ; that word "love" means, do you ? You think you 
'I give you back your husband I' Hove that childish girl yonder, don't you ? ; but I 

The young mother got up from the ground and ; can tell you that you don't know what Jove is. — 
fell into her husband's arms. Edward carried ',< I know what it is. I have loved. For ten years 
her to a sofa and laid her down, white and sense-/ — for ten long, dreary, desolate, miserable years, 
less, and then, knelt down beside her, crving over? fifty-two weeks in every year, fifty-two Sundays, 
her, and sobbing out inarticulate thanksgiving to ' with long idle hours between the two church ser- 
the God who had given his lost wife back to him. /vices — I have loved you, Edward. Shall I tell 

'Poor, sweet lamb!' murmured Hester Jobson; !> you what it is to love? It is to suffer, to hate. — 
'she's as weak as a baby; a^id she's gone through,' Yes, to hate even the object of your love, when 
so much a 'ready this morning.' " /that love is hopeless; to hate him for the very at- 

It was some time before Edward Arundel raised '\ tributes that have made you love him; to grudge 
his head from the pillow upon which his wife's /the gifts and graces that have made him dear. It 
pale face lay, half-hidden amidst the tangled hair. > is to hate every creature upon whom his eyes look 
But when he did look up, he turned to Major/ with greater tenderness than they look on you; to 
Lawford and stretched out his hand. / watch ope face until its familiar lines become a 

'Have pity upon me,' he said. 'I have been / perpetual torment to you, and you can not sleep 
■the dupe of a villain. Tell your poor child how/ because of its eternal presence staring at you in 
much I esteem her, how much I regret that — that / all your dreams. Love ! How many people upon 
— we should have loved each other as we have. < this great earth know the real meaning of that 
The instinct of my heart would have kept me true J hideous word. I have learned it until my soul 
,J.o the past; but it was impossible to know your! loathes the lesson. They will tell you that I am 
daughter and not love her. The villain who has / mad, Edward, and they will tell you something 
brought this sorrow upon us shall pay dearly for / near the truth; but not quite the truth. My mad- 
his infamy. Go back to your daughter; tell her ' ness has been my love. From long ago, Edward, 
&¥«ry thing. Tell her what you have seen here. ' when you were little more than a boy — you re- 
I know her heart, and I know that she will open j member, don 't you, the long days at the Rectory ? 
her arms to this poor ill-used child.' ? /remember every word you ever spoke tome, 

The Major went away. Hester Jobson bustled 5 every sentiment you ever expressed, every look 
about bringing restoratives and pillows, stopping i of your changing face— you were the first bright 
.every now and then in an outburst of affection by thing that came across my barren life; and I loved 
the slippery horse-hair couch on which Mary Jay. > you. I married John Marchmont— why, do you 

Mrsi Jobson had prepared her best bedroom for !- think .'—because I wanted to make a barrier be- 



tween you and irie. I wanted to make mv love 
for you impossible by making it a sin. I d'id not 
think it was in my nature to sin. But since then 
— oh; I hope I have been mad since then; I hope 
that God may forgive my sins because I have been 
mad !' "t - % ^ -— 

Her thoughts wandered away to that awful 
question which had been so lately revived in her 
mind— Co-uid she be forgiven ? Was it within the 
compass of Heavenly mercy to forgive such a sin 
as hers ? 

mart's story 

When the sun sank upon the summer's day 
that was to have been the day of Belinda's bridal, \ 
Edward Arundel thought that it was still early in ) 
the morning. He wondered at the rosy light all 
over Ihe western sky, and that great ball of molten 
gold dropping down below the horizon. He was 
fain to look at his watch, in order to convince 
himself that the low light was really the familiar 
sun, and not some unnatural appearance in the 

And yet, although he wondered at the closit g, 
of the day, with a strange inconsistency his mind 
could scarcely grapple with tbe idea that only 
last night he had sat by Belinda Lawford's side, 
her betrothed husband, and had pondered, Heaven 
only knows with what sorrowful regret, upon the 
unknown grave in which his dead wife lay. 

'I only knew it this morning,' he thought; 'I 
only knew thi3 morning that my young wife still 
lives; and that I have a son.' 

He was sitting by the open window in Hester 
Jobson's best bedroom. He was sitting in an old- 
fashioned easy-chair, placed between the head of 
the bed and the open window — a pure cottage 
window, with diamond panes of thin greenish 
glass, and a broad painted ledge, with a greatjug 
of homely garden-flowers standing on it. The 
young man was sitting by the side of the bed upon 
which his newly-found wife and son lay asleep; 
the child's head nestled on his mother's breast, 
one flushed cheek peeping out of a tangled confu- 
sion of hazel-brown and babyish flaxen hair. 

The white dimity curtains overshadowed the 
loving sleepers. The pretty fluffy knotted fringe 
— neat Hester's handiwork — made fantastical tra- 
cery upon the sunlit counterpane. Mary slept 
with one arm folded round her child , and with her 
face turned to her husband:. She had fallen 
asleep, with her hand clasped in his, after a suc- 
cession of fainting-fits that had left her terribly 

Edward Arundel watched that tender picture 
with a smile of ineffable affection. 

'lean understand now why Roman Catholics 

worship the Virgin Mary,' he thought. ' I can 

comprehend the inspiration that guided Raphael's 

hand when he painted the Madonna de la Chaise. 

In all the world there is no picture so beautiful ! 

Erom all the universe he could have chosen no 

subject more sublime. Oh, my darling wife, given 

back to me out of the grave restored to me, and 

not alone restored ! My little son ! my baby son ' 

whose feeble voice I heard that dark October 

night! To think that I was so wretched a dune 

To think that my dull ears could hear that sound' 

and no instinct rise up in my heart to reveal the 

presence of my child ! I was so near them, not 
once, but several times — so near, and I never 
knew — I never guessed !' 

'Oh, my darling, my darling!.' the young hus- 
band thought, as he looked at his wife's wan face, 
upon which the evidence of all that past agony 
wa* only too painfully visible — 'how bitterly we^ 
two have suffered! But how much more terrible 
must have been your suffering than mine, my poor 
gentle darling, my broken lily !' 

In hi* rapture at finding the u ife he had mourned 
as dead, the young man had for a time almost for- 
gotten the villainous plotter who had kept her bid- 
den from him. But now, as he sat quietly by ihe 
bed upon which Mary arid her baby lay, he had 
leisure to think of Paul Marchmont. 
- What was he to do with that man? What ven- 
geance could he wreak upon ihe head of that 
wretch who, for nearly two years had condemned 
an innocent girl to cruel suffering and shame? To 
shame; for Edward knew now that one of the 
most bitter tortures whrch* Paul Marchmont had 
inflicted upon his cousin had been his pretended 
disbelief in her marriage. 

'What can I do to him?' the young man asked 
himself. 'What can 1 do to him? There is no 
personal chastisement worse than that which he 
has endured already at my hands. The scoun- 
drel ! the heartless villain ! the false, cold-blooded 
cur! What can I do to him ? lean only repeat 
that shameful degradation, and I will repeat it. 
This time he shall howl under the lash like some 
beaten hound This time I will drag him through 
the village street, and let every idle gossip in 
Kemberlingsee how a scoundrel writhes under an 
honest man's whip. 1 will — ' 

Edward Arundel's wife woke while he was 
thinking what chastisement he should inflict upon 
her deadly foe; and the baby opened his round 
innocent blue eyes in the next moment, and sat 
up, staring at his new parent. / 

Mr. Arundel took the child in his arms, and 
held him very tenderly, though perhaps rather 
awkwardly. The baby's round eyes opened wi- 
der at sight of the golden absurdities dangling 
at his father's watch-chain, and the little pudgy 
hands began to play with the big man's locket and 

'He comes to me, you see, Mary !'. Edward 
said, with naive wonder. 

'Jsn't he like you, Edward ?' she whispered. 'It 
was only for his sake that I bore my life all 
through that miserable time; and 1 don't think I 
could have lived even for him, if he hadn't been 
so like you. I used to look at his face sometimes 
for hours and hours togetti er, crying over him, and 
thinking of you. I don't think ( ever cried ex- 
cept when he was in my arms. Then something 
seemed to soften my heart, and the tears came to 
my eyes. 1 was very, very, very ill, for a long 
time before my baby was born; and I didn't know 
how the time went, or where 1 was. I used to 
fancy sometimes I was back in Oakley Street, and 
that papa was alive again, and that we were 
quite happy together, except for some heavy ham- 
mer that was always beating, beating, beating 
upon both our heads, and the dreadful. sound of 
the river rushing down the street under our win- 
dows. I heard Mr. Weston tell his wife that it 
was a miracle I lived through that time.' 

Hester Jobson came in presently with a tea- 
tray, that made itself heard, by a jingling of tea- 
spoon and rattling of cups and saucers, all the way 
up the narrow staircase. 



The friendly carpenter's wife had produced her J have lost the poiyer to believe in happiness. It 
best chyra and her silver tea-pot — an heir-loom ,' comes, the bright stranger; but we shrink ap- 
inherited from a wealthy maiden aunt of her (palled from its beauty, lest, after all, it should be 
husband's. S-he had been busy all the afternoon, (nothing but a phantom. 

preparing that elegant-little collation of cake and '; Heaven knows how arwdously Edward Arundel 
fruit which accompanied the tea-tray;, and she ; looked at his wife's altered face.. Hereyesshone 
spread the lavender-scented table-cloth, and ar- upon him with the holy light of love. !;he smiled 
ranged the cups and saucers, the plates and;: at him with a tender, reassuring smile;. but it 
dishes, with mingled pride and delight. (seemed to him that there - was something al- 

But she bad to endure a terrible disappoint- most supernal in the brightness of that white 
ment by-and-'by ; for neither of her guests was '; wasted face; something that reminded him of the 
in a condition to do justice to her hospitality, countenance of a, martyr who" has" ceased to suffer 
Mary got up -and sat in the roomy easy-chair, ( the anguish of death in a foretaste of the joys of 
propped up with pillows. Her pensive eyes kept ' heaven. 

a loving watch upon the face of,, her husband,; 'Mary,', he said, presently, 'tell me every 
turned toward her own, and slightly crimsoned \ cruelty that Paul Marchmont or his tools inflicted 
by that rosy flush fading out in the western sky. jupon you; tell me every thing, and I will never 
She sat up arid sipped a cup of tea; and in that; speak of our miserable separation again. I will 
lovely summer twilight, with the scent of the ', only punish the cause of it,' he added, in an un- 
ilowers blowing in through the open window, '.dertone. 'Tell me, dear. It will be painful for 
and a stupid moth doing his best to beat out his '.you to speak of it; but it will be only once, 
brains agdinst one of the diamond panes in the (There are some things I must know. Remember, 
lattice, the tortured heart, for the first time since (darling, that you are in my arms now, and that 
the ruthless close of that brief honey-moon, felt (nothing but death can ever again part us..' 
the heavenly delight of repose. j f The young man had his arms round his wife. 

'Oh, Edward!' murmured the young wife, J He felt, rather than heard, a low, plaintive sigh 
'how strange it seems to be happy!' (as he spoke those last words. 

He was at her feet, half-kneeling, half-sitting \ 'Nothing butdeath, Edward; nothingbutdeath,' 
on a hassock of Hester's handiwork, with both '( Mary said, in a solemn whisper. 'Death would 
his wife's hands clasped in his, and his head lean- ;notcome to me when I was very miserable. I 
ing upon the arm of her chair. Hester Jobson jused to pray that 1 might die, and the baby too; 
had carried off the baby, and these two were for I could not have borne to leave him behind, 
quite alone, all in all to each other, with a cruel I thought that we might both be buried with you, 
gap of two years to be bridged over by sorrow-sEdward. I have dreamed sometimes that I was 
ful memories, by tender words of consolation, flying by your side, in a tomb, and I have stretched 
They were alone, and they could talk quite freely j out my dead hand to clasp yours. I used to beg 
now, without fear of interruption; for although j and entreat them to let me be buried with you 
in purity and beauty an infant is first cousin to J when I died; for I believed that you were dead, 
the angels, and although I most heanily concur in (Edward. I. believed it most firmly. I had not 
all that Mr. Bennett and Mr. Buchanan can say (even one lingering hope that you were alive. If 
, or sing about the species, still it must be owned )l had felt such a hope, no power upon earth 
that a baby is rather a hindrance to conversation, i would have kept me prisoner. ' 
and that a man's eloquence does not flow quite so > 'The wretches !' muttered Edward between his 
smoothly when he has to stop every now and then /set teeth; 'the dastardly wretches! the foul liars!' 
to rescue his infant son from the imminent peril ( 'Don't Edward; don't, darling. There is a 
of strangulation, caused by a futile attempt at (pain in my heart when I hear you speak like 
swallowing one of his own fists. /that. I know how wicked they have been; how 

Mary and Edward were alone; they were to- 'cruel— how cruel. I look back at all my suffer- 
gether once more, as they had Been by the trout- '/ ing as if it were some one else who suffered; for, 
stream in the Winchester meadows. A curtain 'now that you are with me, I can not believe that 
had fallen upon all the wreck and ruin of the (miserable, lonely, despairing creature was really 
past, and they could hear the soft, mysterious (me — the same creature whose head now rests 
music that was to be the prelude of a new act in (upon your shoulder; whose breath is mixed with 
life's drama. 'yours. I look back and see aH my past misery, 

'I shall try lo forget all that time,' Mary said, (and I can not forgive them, Edward; I am very 
presently; <I shall try to forget it, Edward. I (wicked, for I can not forgive my cousin Paul and 
think the very memory of it would kill me, if it /his sister — yet. But 1 don't want you to speak 
was to come back perpetually in the midst of my (of them; I only want you to love me; I only 
joy, as it does now, even now, when I am so /want you to smile at me, and tell me again and 
happy — so happy that I dare not speak of my ' again and again that nothing can part us now — 
happiness.' /but death.' 

She stopped, and her face drooped upon her!; She paused for a few moments, exhausted by 
husband's clustering hair. ;; having spoken so long. Her head lay upon her 

'You are crying, Mary!' (husband s shoulder, and she clung a little closer 

'Yes, dear. There is something painfal in (to him, with a slight shiver, 
happiness when it comes after such suffering.' ( 'What is the matter, darling?' 

The young man lifted his head, and looked in ( 'I feel as if it couldn't be real.' 
his wife's face. How deathly pale it was, even? 'What, dear?' 

in that shadowy twilight; how worn and hag-/ 'The present—all this joy. Oh, Edward, is 
gard and wasted since it had smiled at him in his (it real? Is it — is it? Or am I only dreaming? 
brief honey-moon ! Yes, joy is painful when it / Shall I wake presently and feel the cold air blow- 
comes after a long continuance of suffering; it is '/ ing in at the window, and see the moonlight on 
painful because we have become skeptical by > the wainscot at Stony Stringford > Is it all 
reason of the endurance of such anguish. We < real?' 



It 13, my precious one. As 'real as the mercy 
ot trod, who will give you compensation for all 
you nave suffered; as real as God's vengeance, 
which will fall most heavily upon your perse- 
cutors. And now, darling, tell me— tell me all. 
1 must know the story of these two miserable 
years during which I have mourned for my lost 

Mr. Arundel forgot .to mention that during 
those two miserable years he had engaged him- j 
self to become the husband of another woman. j 
But perhaps, even when he is best and truest, a I 
man is always just a shade behind a woman in ! 
the matter of constancy. j 

'When you left me in Hampshire, Edward, 1 1 
was very, very miserable,' Mary began, in a low; 
voice; 'but I knew that it was selfish and wicked 
of me to think only of myself. I tried to think of 
your poor father, who was ill and suffering; and 
I prayed for him, and hoped that he would re- 
cover, and that you would come back to me very ; 
soon. The people at the. inn were very kind to 
me. I sat at the window from morning till night 
upon the day after you left me, and upon the day 
after that; for I was so foolish as to fancy, ever} 
time I heard the sound of horses' hoofs or car- 
riage-wheels upon the high-road, that you were 
coming back to me, and that all my grief was 
over. I sat at the window and watched the road 
till I knew the shape of every tree and housetop, 
every ragged branch of the hawthorn-bushes in 
the hedge. At last — it was the third day after 
you went a,way— 1 heard carriage-wheels, thai 
slackened as they came to the inn. A fly stopped 
at the door, and oh, Edward, I did not wait to 
see who was in it; I never imagined the possi- 
bility of its bringing any body but you. I ran 
down stairs, with my heart beating so that I could 
hardly breathe, and I scarcely felt the stain- 
under my feet. But when 1 got to the door— oh 
my Jove, my love !— I can not bear to think of it; 
1 can not endure the recollection of it — ' 

She stopped, gasping for breath, and clinging 
to h«r husband; and then, with an effort, went on 
again: ' 

•Xes, I will tell you, dear; I must tell you. 
My cousin Paul and my step-mother were standim 
in the little hall at the foot of the stairs. I thini 
J fainted in my step-mother's arms; and when im 
consciousness came back, I was in our sitting' 
room — the pretty rustic room, Edward, in whicl 
you and 1 had been so happy together. 

'I must not stop to tell you every thing. I 
would take rne so long to speak of ail that hap 
pened in that miserable time. I knew that some 
thing must be wrong, from my cousin PaulS 
manner; but neither he nor my step-mother wouh 
tell me what it was. I asked them if you wen 
dead; but they said, 'No, you were not dead. 
Still I could see that something dreadful had hap 
pened. But by-and-by, by accident, 1 saw, yow 
name in a newspaper that was lying on the tab]. 
with Paul's hat and gloves. 1 saw the descripiioi 
of ari accident on the railway by which 1 knew 
you had traveled. My heart sank at once, and 1 
think I guessed all that had happened, I.reat 
your name among those of the people who bar 
been dangerously hurt. Paul ^^ hig he&([ 
when I asked him it there was any hope 

•They brought me back here. ] scarcely know ' 
how I came, how I endured all that misery 1 
implored them to let me come to y ou auain aTid ' 
again, on my knees at their feet. B ut nlither of i 
them would listen to me.; Yt was impossible '< 

Paul said. He always seemed very, very kind to 
me; always spoke softly; always told me that he 
pitied me, and was sorry for me. But though my 
step-mother looked sternly at me, and spoke, as 
she always used to speak, in a harsh, cold voice, 
I sometimes think she might have given way at 
last and let me come to you, but for him — but 
for my cousin Paul. He .could look at me with a 
smile upon his face when I was almost mad with 
my misery; and he never wavered; he never hes- 

'So they took me back to the Towers. I let 
them take me; for I scarcely felt my sorrow any 
longer. I only felt tired;~oh, so dreadfully tired; 
and I wanted to lie down upon the ground in some 
quiet place, where no one could come near me. 
I thought that I was dying. I believe I was very 
ill when we got back to the Towers. My step- 
mother and Barbara Simmons watched by my 
bedside day after day, night after night. Some- 
times I knew them; sometimes 1 had all sorts of 
fancies. And often — ah, how often — darling! — 
[ thought that you were with me. My cousin 
Paul came every day and stood by my bedside. I 
:an't tell you how hateful it was to me to have 
him there. He used to come into the room as si- 
lently as if he had been walking upon snow, but 
however noiselessly he came, however fast asleep 
[ was when he entered the room, I always knew 
that he was there, standing by my bedside, smil- 
mg at me. 1 always woke with a shuddering 
lorror thrilling through my veins, as if a rat had 
run across my face. 

'By-and-by, when the delirium was quite gone, 
I felt ashamed of myself for this. It seemed so 
yicked to feel this unreasonable antipathy to my 
tear father's cousin; but he had brought me bad 
lews of you, Edward, and it was scarcely strange 
that I should hate him. One day he sat down by 
ny bedside, when I was^getting better, and was 
itrohg enough to talk. There was no one besides 
'urselves in the room, except my step-mother, 
ind she was standing at the window, with her 
iead turned away from us, looking out. My 
;ousin Paul sat down by the bedside, and began 
o talk to me in that' gentle, compassionate way 
hat used to torture me and irritate me in spite of 

•He asked me what had happened to me after 
ny leaving the Towers on the day after the ball. 
'I told him every thing, Edward — about your 
•oming to me in Oakley Street— about our mar- 
iage. But oh ! my darling, my husband, he 
wouldn't believe me — he wouldn't believe. I\lo- 
ning that I could say would, make him believe 
ne. Though 1 swore to him again and again — 
>y rcy dead father in heaven, as 1 hoped for 
he mercy of my God — that 1 had spoken the 
ruth, and the truth only, he wouldn't believe nie 
—he wouldn't believe. He shook his head, arid 
aid he scarcely wondered 1 should try to deceive 
■im; that it was a very sad story, a very misera- 
.le and shameful story, and my attempted l'alse- 
I'jod was little more than natural. 

'And then he spoke against, you, Edward — 
igainst you. He talked of my childish ignorance, 
ny confiding love, and your villainy. Oh, Ed- 
ward, he said such shameful things — such shame- 
ful, horrible things ! You had plotted to become 
master of my fortune; to get me into your power, 
because of my money; and you had not married 
me. You had not married me; he persisted in 
saying that. 

'I was delirious again after this— almost mad, 



I think. All through the delirium I kept telling- 
ray cousin Paul of our marriage. Though he 
was very seldom in the room, I constantly thought 
that he was there, and told him the same thing — 
the same thing — till my brain was on fire. I don't 
know how long it lasted. I know that, once in 

was sitting, not reading, not even thinking — only 
sitting with my head upon my hands, staring stu- 
pidly out at the drifting leaves and the gray, cold 
sky. My step-mother was in papa's study, and I 
was to go to her there. I wept, and found her 
standing there, with a letter crumpled up in her 

the middle of the night, I saw my step-mother clenched hand, and a slip of newspaper lying on 
lying upon the ground, sobbing aloud and crying 
out about her wickednes's; crying out that God 
would never forgive her sin. 

'I got better at last, and then I went down 
stairs; and I used to sit sometimes in poor papa's 

the table before her. She was as white as death, 
and she was trembling violently from head to foot. 
' "See," she said, pointing to tjie paper; "your 
lover is dead. But for you he would have re- 
ceived the letter that told him of his father's ill- 

study. The blind was always down, and none of j ness upon an earlier day; he would have gone to 

the servants, except Barbara Simmons, ever came 
into the room. My cousin Paul did not live at 
the Towers; but he came, there every day, and 
often staid there all day. He seemed the master 
of the house. My step-mother obeyed him in 
every thing, and consulted him about every thing. 
'Sometimes Mrs. Weston came. She was like 
her brother. She always smiled at me with a 
grave, compassionate smile, just like his; and she 
always seemed to pity me. But she wouldn't be- 
lieve in my marriage. She spoke cruelly about 

Devonshire by a different train. It was by your 
doing that he traveled when he did. If this is